


A House in the Country

by BoredRavenvlaw620



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adulting is not all fun and games, Angst, Draco has a surprising hobby, Eventual Romance, F/M, Finding some balance, Grown up too soon, Hermione has had enough, Redemption, Scorpius is precocious of course, Time away from everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 25,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23889376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredRavenvlaw620/pseuds/BoredRavenvlaw620
Summary: “That’s it, just no. I’ve done my duty to the Wizarding world. I gave up my childhood, I gave up my dreams, and for what… a tiny cubicle in which I put the Ministry stamp on endless permits. No more. I quit. Effective immediately. I think you’ll find I have ample vacation saved up. I’ll owl human resources on where they can send my check.”She spent her childhood fighting a war she didn't start. Now life is passing her by. What will she find when she makes choices not based off expectation?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 557
Kudos: 950
Collections: DFW Birthday GOGO Fest 2020, dm fanfics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IRisEaGLeS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IRisEaGLeS/gifts).



> My three promoted tags were: Angst/redemption, AdultCharacters, Grew up too soon. I hope you enjoy it IRisEaGLes! Thank you for the challenge! 
> 
> I'm excited and nervous to post this piece. Angst is not my comfort zone, but I gave it a whirl! I hope you'll enjoy this and the other stories in this collection.
> 
> A special thanks to my Alpha/Beta, Mcal. You are a treasure, sweet friend!
> 
> I own no rights to Harry Potter and Co.

* * *

“Hermione, dear, would you like some more creamed potatoes?”

Smiling at Mrs. Weasley’s doting, Hermione shakes her head in refusal, accepting the bowl for only a moment before it’s passed along to the next voracious Weasley.

It’s a familiar scene around the table with the Weasleys. It’s loud and raucous, but so filled with love and life. And while it’s a balm to her soul most days, there are times when she longs for the quiet company of her parents or the comfortable intimacy of time with a significant other. Those two things have been long absent in her life.

“No, Harry, not tonight.” Ginny’s loud whisper rises above the din of conversation and suddenly all eyes are on the blushing woman and her beaming spouse.

Ron asks the question on everyone’s mind, “What’s going on, you two?”

The look on Harry’s face is one Hermione’s only seen once before almost two years ago when they announced little James’s impending arrival. “Come on, Gin. They’ll know soon enough. Why not tonight?” Ginny shrugs helplessly and motions for Harry to take the lead.

Harry hoists their almost one year old son onto his lap, the mischievious tot slapping the table in approval of his new view. “In nine short months, James will be a big brother!” The table erupts with glee at the promise of new life in the family.

Since the war, since Fred’s tragic loss, Mrs. Weasley holds everyone a little bit tighter, a little bit longer; and even though she’d made great strides with her mind healer, the infusion of grandchildren had helped mend her soul like nothing else.

Even Hermione can’t resist smiling at the news. Harry is her brother in every way but blood and had lacked a proper family most of his life. The idea of his joy brings her joy. What concerns her is that Ginny’s smile is forced and the tears pooling in her lashes obscure a terrified gaze. 

After the announcement, the dinner is filled with more talk of children and _oh, it was only yesterdays,_ and _remember the times._ Hermione feels the forced smile on her own face as she thinks about where her life is at the moment.

The evening migrates to the sitting room as it usually does. The children play and make their rounds to each family member soaking in all the attention they can get. Molly reads to Dominique, Bill and Fleur’s youngest. Harry is holding a sleepy James, his body rocking gently to keep the rambunctious boy in that state, and precocious Victoire flits about charming the adults into giving her treats that are promptly confiscated by her mother.

Hermione ducks out to the kitchen for more tea to find Ginny staring out the kitchen window toward the makeshift pitch beyond the orchard.

“Gin? You okay?”

Ginny drops her head between her arms and shakes her head. Stepping back from the sink she turns to Hermione, her face desperate. “I don’t want to give up my career. Am I a horrible person?”

Pulling the terrified woman into her arms Hermione assures her that she is not a horrible person. 

“But how will this work with two kids? It’s so hard with one.”

“I don’t know... All I have is a cat that hates me.”

A snort escapes Ginny at this and soon the two women are choking on suppressed laughter. After a deep breath, Hermione pulls Ginny back into a hug. “You are one of the strongest women I know. You are a fierce and fearless Quidditch player and an amazing wife and mother.”

“You really think so?” she asks, wiping below her eyes as she pulls back.

“Of course I do. And I know if you talk to Harry the two of you will find a solution that suits your family best. Hell, I wouldn’t put it past Harry to quit _his job._ He’s always looking for an excuse to take a day with you and James.”

Nodding Ginny huffs a small laugh and her expression clears. Her tenacity and resolve suffusing her demeanor once more. “You’re right… _of course_.” Hermione rolls her eyes at the playful dig, but Ginny pulls her into one more hug, “Thank you, Hermione. You’re the best adopted-sister-in-law a girl could have.”

As she watches Ginny return to her family, Hermione steps out the back door. She sits on the stoop for unknown minutes listening to the bustle of the Weasleys. Finally she trudges off through the orchard and past the wards apparating home to the cat that hates her. 

* * *

“Miss Granger, a word.” 

“What is it now,” she grumbles under her breath as her twit of a boss Mr. Carbuncle lumbers toward her. “Certainly, Mr. Carbuncle. What can I do for you this afternoon?”

With a subtle nod of his head the office secretary prances over with a box full of files. A similar box of files sat on Hermione’s desk just that morning. She dutifully reviewed each one and leveled Ministry approval on the files that were in order and rejections on those that weren’t. She’d hoped, foolishly it would seem, that she could devote some time this afternoon to researching policy reform. Her professional hopes were dying a slow death in this Ministry cubicle.

“Got a fresh batch of permit requests for you.” His look far too pleased hitching his pants over his generous middle. “But tomorrow we need your shining face at a ribbon cutting on Diagon Alley. Everyone loves to see the _Golden Girl_ out endorsing all the good the Ministry is doing.” His derisive teasing still floating on the air as he waddles away from her desk. 

Her shoulders slump as a side of the box gives way covering her desk in an avalanche of bureaucracy. She will not be a party to the self-congratulations of the Ministry anymore.

“No.” She might be having an out of body experience, but she thinks not, for the first time in a long time, this feels like the thing she needs to do. “No,” she repeats louder, her voice carrying over the now silent office space. 

“I’m sorry Miss Granger, but what do you mean _No_? You have duties to perform.” Mr. Carbuncle has the most aggrieved expression on his face, but she finds she doesn’t care one whit. Standing from her hard, ministry-issued chair, she gathers her purse and with a flick of her wand, the few personal effects she’s allowed fly into the bottomless bag. 

“That’s it, just no. I’ve done my duty to the Wizarding world. I gave up my childhood, I gave up my dreams, and for what… a tiny cubicle in which I put the Ministry stamp on endless permits. No more. I quit. Effective immediately. I think you’ll find I have ample vacation saved up. I’ll owl human resources on where they can send my check.” 

The faces of her co-workers are probably a mixture of shock and awe, but she doesn’t turn to confirm her suspicions and as her steps bring her closer to the lifts, she finds she really isn’t concerned with what anyone thinks. 

* * *

“Poe! You insufferable beast.” Her books are everywhere, and her cat is nowhere to be seen. 

A low growl from the top shelf pulls her up short and she locks eyes with the most mischievous cat she’s ever had the misfortune to know. His attempt to hide amongst the shadows of her bookshelves thwarted by the luminous glow of green eyes against his ebony fur. 

Assuming a dueling stance, she watches as Poe crouches lower and wiggles his furry bottom. The _Immobulus_ flies from her wand almost on instinct and the cat’s flight is halted in midair. It’s just a moment more before the cat is levitated within and secured in his carrier, a hissing spitting ball of fury once the spell is released. “Serves you right I’d say, for always getting into trouble when I’m out. You need to learn better than to disturb my books. This is the third time this week.” 

Content to leave the crazy cat in his containment, Hermione makes quick work packing her things, including some of the books, while sending others back to the shelves. 

Her bags now in order, she levels them with a shrinking spell and pockets the lot. Poe growls as she approaches his wicker prison, “I know you don’t like it. Crookshanks never did either. But we’re going on a holiday and it's the safest way for you to travel.” 

“Where are you going, Hermione?”

“Harry! When did you come in?”

“Only a moment ago, but you said you’re going on holiday? The word around the ministry is that you quit. There was quite the bit of gossip about it during lunch.”

She waves him off, scoffing at the ridiculous gossip mongers of the Ministry. “Yes, I am going on holiday, and yes, I did quit.”

Harry looks incredulous, but it’s not his life that was circling the drain. Hermione gathers her wand and double checks the shrunken luggage in her pockets. Picking up Poe’s carrier, the feline emitting a steady growl from within, she strides past Harry and out the door.

Harry follows as she locks up her flat and begins down the hall. “I’m taking Poe here out to the country.” She smiles as she makes her way down the steps to the ground floor.

“Hermione! You don’t mean to...” He nods toward the carrier vibrating with anger.

“What Harry? I’m going to the country. The cat’s going too.”

“But, Hermione, you’re taking the cat… you know? _To the country._ ”

She laughs, full and hearty for the first time in months. “No, Harry.” Her laughter dies and her expression sobers, “My parents had a country house in the Cotswolds. They hoped to retire there. It’s all I have left of them, I couldn’t get rid of it.” Smiling once again, “But I assure you, Poe is safe. I just can’t let him destroy my flat anymore.” 

“What about your job? Did you truly quit?”

Setting Poe on the ground, she turns fully to Harry. “I couldn’t do it anymore. I wasn’t happy. I think the time away will be good for me.”

“You’ll write won’t you?” His smile is so sincere and she is so grateful for the support, she throws her arms around his neck. “Of course I’ll write, Harry.” He sags in relief and squeezes her tighter. Finally releasing her he grins and with a shooing motion of his hands says, “Off you go then.”

With a pop she disappears from her London street.

* * *

The weight of Poe’s hamper throws her off balance as she lands on the stone path of the cottage. She can’t remember the last time she spent a weekend with her parents here, but judging by the overgrown vines creeping up the side and the trailing grass covering the path, the cottage has not been inhabited, even for a weekend, in some time.

Poe’s growling and hissing draws her out of her consideration and stepping back she whips her wand at the latch and her seething feline bursts forth.

He sprints to the edge of the fence, turns, gives her a quick hiss and then bolts off into the neighboring woods. Hermione spends only a moment worrying for him as he seems wiley enough to keep himself alive for at least a night.

The yard is overgrown, and the windows look dull; Hermione imagines the inside is equally drab and as her fingers make contact with the hilt of her wand only one thought occurs to her. _When was the last time I let my hands get dirty?_

Fishing the keys from her bag, she opens the door to the cottage.

It's hours later when all the furniture has been uncovered and the windows now glow with the lamp light from within. She didn’t get to the gardens today, but tomorrow seems promising. 

Poe hasn’t returned, so she sets out a dish of food and water on the back stoop. When she pulls back the quilt, she forces herself not to think of the hours her mother spent tucking each stitch in, or her beaming face upon its completion. No, she tucks herself in, pulls the intricate duvet up to her chin and falls almost instantly asleep from exhaustion and a bit of heartache.

* * *

After two days in the cottage, Hermione is starting to see what she’s been missing toiling away rank and file, a cog in the bureaucratic machine. She’s tired and dirty from pulling weeds and scraping the overgrown dirt and grass from the path but she feels more accomplished with every flagstone revealed than she ever did wielding the Ministry stamp to level approval on so many permits.

It’s as she looks out the kitchen window toward the woods that she remembers her unruly familiar. When she checks the food and water she finds them untouched and decides perhaps she’ll venture into the woods to give a quick look for the rambunctious animal. He’s probably fine she tells herself but she won’t be able to relax until she’s made some effort toward his care.

* * *

The woods are more of a thick copse only separating her garden from the adjacent one. Though it's a fairly large expanse, so it's reasonable to assume Poe lost his way, this being a new setting and all.

Walking across the field of high grass she can see a quaint stone cottage, a low stacked wall surrounding a neat but flourishing garden. As she approaches she hears sweet laughter and spies a blond head bounding up from the grass again and again.

Hermione envies those days of carefree childhood. Those days when magic was just a dream, unicorns and elves were fantasies, and wanting to save the world was more an ambition of grandeur than an actual requirement for reaching adulthood.

Nearing the boy's game she sees movement in the grass behind him, but before she can reach him, the entity in the grass leaps and is on the boy’s back. _Poe._

She rushes forward ready to stop the cat from tearing the young man to ribbons when she finds the rosy cheeked boy in a fit of giggles as he pets her rapacious cat, all the while Poe licks his cheeks and nuzzles his chin.

Silence falls over the garden when the boy spots Hermione. She steps back, trying to indicate she means no harm as the lad jumps up, cat firmly in his arms.

“He seems to like you better than me,” She offers.

“Ollie is a good cat,” the boy replies.

“Ollie, huh? I’ve always called him Poe.”

“Why would you call him that? His name is Ollie.”

Hermione chuckles as she watches the cat wriggle out of the boy's arms to stalk a bug flying low over the grass. Standing with the boy for a moment they watch the cat and laugh as it flails after the insect.

“Well, it seems like you have a cat now. I’m Hermione by the way, what’s your name?”

Before he can answer her a deep voice comes from the direction of the house, “Scorpius? It’s time to come in for… Scorpius?” There is Draco Malfoy, a half apron around his waist, the sleeves on his button up shirt rolled to the elbow, “Who are you talking to, Scorpius?” He steps off the stoop and toward his son and this strange woman he’s standing with when he stops. “Granger?” 

Hermione waves awkwardly, her voice frozen. “You know her, Dad?”

Draco reaches them and puts his hand on Scorpius’s shoulder, considering Hermione, “Yes, son, I do know her.”

“Ollie was her cat, but she was calling him a dumb name,” he concludes, trying to whisper, but missing the mark by several decibels.

Hermione laughs, “I think perhaps I was calling him the _wrong_ name. He seems to like Ollie more than Poe. He’s certainly friendlier to you than to me.” she grumbled 

Draco wrinkles his nose, “Poe? After the nineteenth century macabre American writer?”

She nods. He might have been a pureblood supremacist in his youth, but it seems fitting that someone like Draco Malfoy would be familiar with Edgar Allan Poe

“Well, some names carry burdensome expectations. Come along, Scorpius, it’s lunch time.” He turns to go back to the house, Hermione summarily dismissed.

“Wait, Dad, can…” he turns to her, “What was your name again?”

Her shoulders shake with amusement. “Hermione,” she answers enunciating the syllables for the young boy.

“Hermione!” he proclaims, his eyes wide at his success with her complicated name, “Can Hermione eat with us?”

Any humor Hermione might have found previously in the situation dissolves and the two adults stared blankly at one another for a moment.

“I think…” Hermione begins.

“I don’t…” Draco starts at the same time.

Hermione sends Scorpius a half smile, and kneels down to be eye-level with him, “I really must be going, but thank you for the invitation. If it’s agreeable with your father, you may keep… Ollie was it?” He nods vigorously, “Very well, Ollie it is. He seems very happy with you and I think his happiness would make me happy.”

Hermione glances over Scorpius’s shoulder to Malfoy’s half-hearted glare, but knows the cat found a home when his attention leaves hers to reach down and pick up the mischievous ball of fuzz.

“Can we, Dad? Can we keep him?” Draco dips his head in approval as he scratches behind the cat’s one white ear. Hermione was sure Ollie nee Poe gave her a smug look at the news of his new home.

Standing and brushing off her knees, Hermione backs away, “I must be going. I’m just through the woods, and I’ll bring his cat things tomorrow if that’s agreeable. I can just leave them on the stoop.” And with that, she hastens away toward her cottage, the sound of Scorpius’s curious voice drifting over the field.

* * *

Hermione lay in her bed that night, the wind and rain battering the house in sweeping gusts and furious drops. As she listens to the barrage it occurs to her that she is alone—truly alone—for the first time since the war. Even living by herself, in her flat, she’d had a cat. And are you really _alone_ in a building filled with people?

Unsettled from the maelstrom outside she wraps herself in the quilt from the bed and wanders the cottage. At a lull in the storm she hears an odd scratching at the kitchen window. As she slowly approaches the window a flash of lightning reveals Poe, now Ollie standing on the window ledge. He jumps down and is soon yowling at the back door. She opens the door only a crack before he runs in.

“I’m actually glad to see you, Poe” The cat growls in response. Hermione holds up her hands in surrender, “Of course, _Ollie_ , begging your pardon, sir.” She flicks a drying spell at him and he rubs against her legs. Surrendering to his affection she picks him up and returns to bed. After almost a year of not connecting with her new familiar, she feels satisfaction at the sound of his pur in her ear and the warmth of his fur on her cheek. She doesn’t think about how she’ll have to take him back to the sweet boy with the grumpy father tomorrow. 

When the fresh dawn creeps in through the windows, Hermione yawns and stretches her limbs; the storm finally gone and the rays of light golden on her face. Ollie is still curled on the neighboring pillow. 

This is the first time she’s slept through the night and into the next morning in almost seven years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the rating from Mature to Teen. Thanks for reading and subscribing! Hope you enjoy!

* * *

The yowling at the back door is ear piercing. Hermione finds herself rushing to gather the wicker carrier, the few cat toys she brought, and the bag of Magikitten Kibble Bits when she trips over the legs of the cocktail table, catching her balance before she face-plants in the sitting room. One deep cleansing breath later and her hands are planted firmly on her hips, her right foot cocked out, tapping rhythmically as she glares at Ollie. 

His insistent yowling stops, but those big green eyes stare up at her as he sits on his haunches, his flicking tail the only movement. “Listen, you. I am getting your things together. We will take our leave back to that darling boy as soon as I have it all gathered.  _ You _ can just sit quietly until I’m done.” Ollie blinks up at her in answer then begins to lick his paw. 

A roll of her eyes and a quick wand swish later and Hermione is finally ready to set out. The door is no sooner cracked than Ollie is halfway across the yard. It stings really; to think that the cat prefers the Malfoys to her, but the trip through the woods is as good a time as any for reflection, and she knows Ollie was not happy in her flat.  _ She  _ wasn’t happy in her flat. Though her cat abandoning her was not exactly the change she anticipated by coming to the country. For that matter, being Draco Malfoy’s neighbor wasn’t either. 

Emerging on the other side of the thicket, she’s once more taken by the picturesque field; the high grass swaying in the gentle breeze, a striking juxtaposition to the gale that battered her shutters the previous night. Approaching the house she spends a moment taking it in. She’s been to Malfoy Manor all of one time; arguably the worst day of her life, and the aesthetic was not her focus. But she knows what grandeur is and Malfoy Manor was most certainly that—grand. This cottage, with its ivy covered stones in varied shades of brown, the vibrant colors of the garden bursting all around with the path leading to the gleaming white door is anything  _ but _ grand. But it might be the most glorious house she’s ever seen, because her breath catches as the scent of lavender and peppermint waft into her and the mid-morning sun glints off the upper story windows in a way that can only be described as perfect. 

“What are you doing back?” Malfoy’s voice shocks her out of her appraisal and dims the whole atmosphere.

But the world shines bright again as that sweet little blond boy runs around the side of the garden, “Hermione!” He runs up to her, a streak of black fur hot on his heels. “Did Ollie stay with you last night?”

Ignoring her ire at Malfoy, she bends to be at Scorpius’s level. “He did,” Hermione tells him with a smile and a scrunch of her nose, just barely keeping her hand out of his fluttering mop of hair. “The storm was a little scary, so it was sweet of him to snuggle with me. I’m sorry he wasn’t there to snuggle with you though.” Malfoy rolls his eyes, but Hermione ignores him in favor of a much more pleasant member of the revered House of Malfoy.

Scorpius smiles, she notices that he’s missing one of his front teeth and her heart melts a little more for this dear boy, “That’s alright,” he tells her looking over his shoulder at his father who is turning red with his effort to suppress a scowl, “my dad is the best snuggler there is.” He is so proud and Hermione glances past him to see the elder Malfoy whose jaw is so tight his teeth may crack at any moment. And Scorpius doesn’t stop there, “If you need someone to snuggle with you can come over anytime.” The earnest nod of his head tells her that he’s entirely sincere in his care for her and she feels bereft that the history between herself and his father—history he likely has no knowledge of—will restrict the possibly precious friendship she could have with this child.

She pushes away the unbidden images of Scorpius as a baby being cuddled on his father’s chest and of her being held in the strong arms of a man with whom she shares a child, she came for a purpose and this conversation is going in the  _ wrong  _ direction. “I’m sure I’d be a terrible snuggler,” she leans in, her hand by her mouth to share a secret, but she knows the whisper carries to Malfoy, “I flail in my sleep… I’d surely punch someone.” 

Scorpius giggles and Hermione gives in to the need to tousle his hair. Malfoy clears his throat and raises his eyebrows in question reminding her that she actually had an objective in coming here today. Straightening she pulls the shrunken cat things from her pocket and enlarges them.

“I brought you Ollie’s things. There’s his carrier, toys, a blanket, some…”

“Yes, yes, he has accoutrement. Thank you, Granger.” Malfoy flicks his wrist sending the cat fodder in to the house, “Come Scorpius, we have chores.” Malfoy turns on his heel and walks toward the corner of the house, Scorpius and Ollie trailing after him.

Scorpius waves at her as he runs to his father, but stops before they disappear around the corner, “Will you come over again, Hermione?” She can see Malfoy is outdone with his son’s interest in her, but she can’t be rude to a child.

“I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

Scorpius smiles a mile wide and scurries off around the house. Malfoy gives her a pursed lip glare, “Off you go then, Granger.” Giving her a haughty little shooing motion with his hands.

Her walk home is lovely. She resolutely  _ does not _ think of Draco Malfoy, but allows herself to bask in the pure joy that radiates from his son.

* * *

A few weeks go by with a quiet rhythm. Cool days and the occasional rain bring life and color to the garden around Hermione’s cottage and leave the hanging baskets and window boxes of the high street heavy with early blooms. 

Tucked in a narrow storefront she finds a quiet tea shop. The interior bursting with the tannic aroma of their daily offering mixed with a hint of cinnamon from the warm scones being stacked on a platter. There are low tables with plush chairs dotted about the perimeter; a tempting place to sit and sip and read and just be, but she craves the outdoors right now. 

Wandering along the cobbled street finds her in a shaded park, gentle knolls rising and falling off into the countryside as families entertain their children on the play structures and couples recline on the grass. She ignores the pang in her heart that reminds her she is lonely, telling herself she needs the  _ solitude  _ to refresh and reset.

She settles on a bench tucked behind a short hedge and pulls three letters from her bag, the ones she couldn’t read a week ago. The guilt had niggled at her then, telling her she’d abandoned her friends and that they needed her; she was sure the letters would only reinforce that notion, and she needed to care for herself for once. 

Seeing Harry’s neat penmanship she breaks the seal on his letter first. Her eyes scan down the page and she feels a mixture of relief and sadness. He thanks her for being there for Ginny, apologizing for not seeing how his wife was struggling. He’s already begun cultivating a replacement because, just as Hermione had predicted, he’s quitting to stay home with James and the new baby; another boy they will name Albus. 

She reads Ginny’s next, the sentiments are similar. Ginny is feeling energized about the new baby, and leaning into the coaching role she’s assuming while pregnant, but the trainers have assured her she’ll be ready to take to the skies as soon as she's cleared by her healer after baby Albus is born. Hermione is so happy for her. Some people really get to live their dreams.

Ron’s letter is the last in the stack. She takes a moment to brush her fingers along the page before reading, caressing the carefree scrawl and noticing a splotch of what she assumes is mustard, but who knows, that man is always eating. His letter is sweet and encouraging making her laugh at his disappointment for not being witness to the spectacle of her resignation. He’s never been particularly ambitious, but to call him a sidekick seems derogatory to the solid brotherhood he has with Harry and herself. She’s not even surprised to read that he will also be leaving the Ministry to work with George at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. 

Now, if she could find some direction in her own life. 

Staring across the field, a laugh draws her attention to the swings just beyond the end of the path. That it’s Scorpius’s gleeful noises does not surprise her at all. What does, however, is the happiness on his father’s face as he pushes his son higher and higher.

The Malfoy of her memory, both distant and recent, is scowling and cold, especially to her. But his man, this wizard,  _ this father _ ; he’s anything but. His features are softer with both corners of his mouth pulled high in a genuine smile and his perfectly coiffed hair mussed from the breeze. It sends a catch to her chest to hear him laugh, a deep reverberation across the space that puts her in mind of her own father, and other important fathers in her life—Arthur Weasley, Harry, and she’s sure in the not so distant future, Ron as he frolics with his future children. Did Lucius Malfoy play as Draco is doing now? Did Draco know joy as a child before their lives were hijacked by a mad man? 

Hidden as she is on her little bench, she watches Malfoy and Scorpius. The swing goes higher and higher, Scorpius shouting words of encouragement and motivation for his father and suddenly, Malfoy runs beneath the swing as his son reaches the pinnacle of the swing’s limit. Hermione startles at the game, but everyone is left unscathed, and she’s left more than a little intrigued as she watches them leave the swings to meander off, Scorpius perched on his father’s back 

The coast clear of Malfoys, Hermione walks to the swings. She eases into the sling and grasps the chains, testing the feeling. She pushes back with her feet and allows gravity to pull her forward. Then she does it again; this time with more gumption, swinging higher and higher with each pump of her legs and push and pull of her arms on the chains. Maybe this is what she’s missed for so long in her life—innocent joy.

She lets the sensation take her away for a moment. Back and forth in smooth arcs, pushing herself higher and higher, relishing in the moment where gravity releases you.

When she was a child the other children on the playground would swing as high as they could and jump. Hermione was a cautious child; she’s always felt her defining moment of courage had been asking the sorting hat to put her in Gryffindor, but before that, she’d clung fast to the illusion of safety one has when they don’t actively take risks. Making up her mind, Hermione adjusts her grip on the chains and then when she feels gravity let her go once more, she jumps.

She doesn’t float gracefully to the ground, but lands with a thud. Her hair is a disaster and her rear aches, her knee might be a bit jammed as well, but her heart is light and the breath she takes in smells sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge Thank you! to Mcal for always being such an encouraging friend and alpha/beta! Love you, sister!
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I hope you'll consider leaving a kudos or a review. I'd love to hear your thoughts!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own no rights to Harry Potter and his ilk. Just having a bit of fun with the characters!

* * *

Spring fades into summer as the days grow warm and humid, and Hermione begins to feel a bit restless in her little cottage. She’s never gone this long without regimented work. Her living space sparkles and the garden would not be pleased with additional interference. She needs  _ something  _ to do.

The village is charming and a distraction most days, but window shopping and watching families play in the park is not a viable career option. The only other magical person she’s encountered is Malfoy and he seems content to forget that she exists altogether. 

Vibrant marquees dot the high street on designated market days; the smiling faces of the proprietors beckon her to sample their goods and make a few purchases. Of course the local bookseller gets more than a bit of her attention–and money–but her favorite stand is the small apothecary selling handmade bath goods.

The pastel salts call out to her and the creamy bars of soap feel luxurious even when dry. Hermione picks up a block of the soap, dotted with lavender blossoms and as she’s inhaling the clean, herbaceous aroma a sweet voice calls her attention.

Scorpius is by her side, an infectious smile lighting his face. “I like the peppermint one,” he says, offering her a bar with large pieces of mint leaves suspended within.

“Thank you, Scorpius.” She takes it and sniffs deeply, the cool bite of mint filling her lungs. “That one would really wake you up in the morning.” 

“Hey! That’s what my dad says!” She giggles at his enthusiasm. “Dad!” Malfoy is speaking with the shop owner and holds his finger up, a silent reminder not to interrupt. Scorpius is obviously well-mannered because he quiets and waits until his father finishes his brief conversation and looks at him once again. 

“Oh.” His face drops at her presence. “ _ Hello, Granger. _ ” 

Refusing to bring down her mood, Hermione responds brightly, “Hello, Malfoy. Lovely day isn’t it.”

Scorpius nods in agreement, his soft blond hair flopping about in his excitement. Malfoy diverts his attention to his son, “What was it you wanted to say, Scorp?” 

Scorp. That was cute. Hermione holds her breath not to giggle at the idea of Draco Malfoy being associated with anything  _ cute. _ “What? Oh yeah... Hermione said the same thing about the peppermint soap.” Malfoy looks a bit confused. “That it wakes you up in the morning.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Nodding his goodbye to the shop owner he steps around the booth, his hand extended, “Come along Scorpius. We must be getting home for tea.”

“Wait, dad. Can Hermione  _ please _ join us?” Scorpius is smiling up at her so he misses the fortifying breath his father takes as he pinches the bridge of his nose in what Hermione knows is exasperation at what’s arguably the sweetest begging she’s ever heard.

“I’m sure Granger has far too many important things to do besides have tea with the likes of us.”

Hermione’s shoulders draw back and her chin juts outs, the muscle memory of her reaction to Malfoy’s baiting, then she remembers that little boy. An innocent child, who doesn’t know his father once treated her as no more than a stain on the hem of his bespoke robes.

“I’d love to have tea with you. I have some errands to finish first, but I’ll be along very shortly. That is, of course,” she leans down her face lit with amusement and conspiracy, “if you’re certain you want to have tea  _ with the likes of me. _ ”

Scorpius wrinkles his nose in the cutest way and glances back at his father, who by now schooled his face to neutrality, “We never have anyone over. I can’t wait!” He rushes off in a breeze of messy blond hair and carefree laughter dragging his father behind, looking as if he’s been sentenced to an afternoon of torture. Hermione chooses amusement instead of insult that her presence at tea would cause such feelings.

“Well it's about time this happened.”

“I’m sorry?” Hermione turns her attention to the woman running the apothecary booth, “About time what happened?”

The woman gives her a knowing smile, “Mr. Malfoy. Having a lady to tea.”

Fumbling with her words, Hermione finally stutters out, “Oh, no… I’m sure Malfoy has no interest in me like…  _ that _ . Be-besides, what would his wife say? Or girlfriend?” She flaps her hands in confusion and frustration, “He’s not interested in me.” She concludes.

“He’s a widower, dear,” the woman tells her with a bit of admonition in her voice. Hermione feels aptly chastised at her judgement, but also a bit heartbroken knowing that precious little boy is growing up without a mother. And try as she might, she softens toward Malfoy knowing he’s lost his partner, or perhaps the great love in his life; and despite his upbringing is raising a lovely young man.

But she feels the need to clarify her relationship with Malfoy, lest anyone in the town get the wrong idea about the two of them, “We’re simply old acquaintances from our school days. I assure you he held no affection for me then, nor does he now.” With that, Hermione exchanges her pounds for a variety of bath salts and soaps and hastens away from the booth determined to have an entirely platonic tea with Malfoy and his son.

* * *

“Hermione, you’re here!” Scropius’s smile beams up at her from beyond the threshold and she presents him a twine wrapped package to him. He takes it from her hand and sniffs it, his eyes growing wide at the aroma emanating from the box. He runs off leaving her standing on the stoop with the door wide open. “Dad! There’s something chocolate in here!”

Malfoy drifts into view in the doorway opposite Hermione, shifting with a practiced ease to allow Scorpius passage. One eyebrow veers upward as he considers her, “Did you expect an engraved invitation?” And with that, he disappears into the next room. This is obviously the warmest reception she can expect from him so she steps inside and pulls the door closed behind her.

The front room is bright and inviting, with soft furniture in neutral colors punctuated with a bright throw pillow here and there; a basket of colorful toys sits at the end of the sofa. 

It’s exactly as she would expect a room in this charming house, but in direct opposition to the Malfoy she’s known since she was eleven. Though it’s fair to suppose that as life has changed her perhaps it’s changed him too; especially knowing that he’s lost his wife.

Pounding footsteps precede Scorpius’s reentry to the front room, “Come on, Hermione. The tea’s getting cold.” He grabs her hand and almost drags her through to the small dining area. The table is set with simple white china, beautiful, but utilitarian. But the fragrance of the tea is intoxicating. Chamomile with a hint of mint, a promise of tranquility and relaxation, and she resolves to remain calm throughout this social experiment that is tea with Draco Malfoy.

“Join us won’t you, Granger.” He might be teasing her, but Hermione smiles at him and thanks him quietly as she takes the chair across from him at the small table.

Scorpius clambers into the chair between them and begins to fill his plate with the chocolate tarts she picked up from the bakery. The three of them are quiet as teacups are filled and the offerings sampled, and Scorpius slurps his tea and nibbles on a tart, the chocolate filling leaving a ring around his mouth and a bright shine to his icy blue eyes. He shares a smile with Hermione and the two of them giggle a moment before the clearing of a throat draws her attention across the table. 

A placid smile graces her lips as she tilts her head in question to Malfoy. He’s wholly unaffected and sips his tea with that aristocratic air he was born to possess. “So, Granger, what heroic things have you undoubtedly been up to these last few years?”

A scowl would be bad manners, so she tries to cover her irritation with a sip of tea before she answers. “Nothing heroic I’m afraid. I was working at the Ministry until recently.” She goes for self-deprecating, a defense mechanism she employs often to try and avoid talking about herself, especially since she doesn’t see her time at the Ministry as productive or enriching to herself or the Wizarding world at large.

Malfoy, of course, can always be counted on to draw her into a debate. “I can imagine having to toe the line was difficult for you after all those years of unchecked rule breaking.”

“Hermione,” Scorpius is earnest, “breaking the rules is naughty.”

“You’re absolutely right, Scorpius. Rules exist for a reason.” Looking from Scorpius to Malfoy she continues, “And I assure you, any rule breaking I took part in was to protect myself and those I loved from danger.”

“Well, that is something I can agree with,” Malfoy reaches over to run his hand over Scorpius’s hair, “Protecting those you love.” The young man stuffs another tart in his mouth unaware of the depth of conversation taking place around him.

The remainder of tea is quiet. Soon the cups are drained and only one tart remains, which Hermione assures Scorpius he can have. Malfoy gathers the cups and the crumb strewn platter, and she knows that’s her cue to leave. 

Scorpius is rolling on the floor trying to attract Ollie with a string and she hears the rush of water in the adjoining kitchen. Distracted as she is by the comfortable domestic scene and the loneliness she knows awaits her at her own warm cottage, she doesn’t stop to think about the fact that Draco Malfoy is washing dishes.

“Scorpius, don’t forget the evening chores,” Malfoy calls and Scorpius jumps up from his place on the floor, bidding her a hasty farewell as he and Ollie bound out the back door.

“Bye, Scorpius. See you around, Malfoy” She mutters, her posture slumped as she leaves their home and trudges across yet another field toward her solitude.

* * *

She doesn’t see the grey eyes that peer through the kitchen window watching as the late afternoon light glints off her windblown curls, contemplating the series of events that brought the tenacious and resourceful witch into their lives

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big thanks the Mcal for being a stellar friend, but also a superb alpha/beta!
> 
> I’d love to hear from you in the reviews or kudos! Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back!

* * *

Books and walks fill her days as she sinks deeper into the isolation of the countryside. She considers over and over the option of returning to London, maybe staying with Harry and Ginny for a while, but every time that thought enters her mind she knows that will do little to solve anything, she needs direction–a purpose. And she knows even a quick visit home will only draw her back into the comfortable and unfulfilling monotony. Besides, she loves her little cottage, and the quiet little town just down the lane. It’s the restless loneliness she doesn’t love. 

The measured beats of the afternoon raindrops are interrupted by a pecking at her kitchen window. 

It’s Harry’s new owl, Asha, and she’s carrying quite a burden of letters. Hermione allows Asha entrance and relieves her of the parcel, but before she can offer a treat, the elegant bird takes back to the sky leaving a few feathers in her wake. Asha normally stayed to rest and take any return correspondence Hermione had, but this day must find her busy. 

At least a bundle of letters gives Hermione some diversion. She sorts through finding letters from Harry and Ginny. A quick missive from George that makes her laugh as he recounts an incident with Ron falling into a box of Fanged Frisbees and running down Diagon Alley as they nipped at his backside.

Neville has some answers to her questions about her garden and Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress McGonagall, tells her she’s pleased that Hermione is seeking her own path. The last letter brings her a swell of pride. She may be an adult, but her respect for Minerva McGonagall runs deep and the idea that someone besides herself cares for her success in life is bolstering. 

As she stacks the parchments and clears away the bits of wax from the seals, there is another tap at her window. This time a lovely barn owl is perched on the sill, a single letter tied to its leg.

This owl has no compunction accepting a treat, but flies off almost as quickly as Asha. 

The parchment in her hand is a deep blue, the color of new night in the sky. Her name is etched on the outside in an elegant script, the silver ink glinting in the lamplight of the room.

The matching silver wax seal is imprinted with a design that Hermione thinks might be the Gemini constellation, but it’s small so she can’t be sure. 

The contents of the letter are most enticing. Looking over it once more, she realizes that she knows that logo, she has seen it many times, in many places that she holds dear—her textbooks.

Every textbook, ever required of her as a Hogwarts student is a part of her personal library, and every book contains the seal from Constellation Press.

Aware of her availability in the job market, the editor in chief, an N.B. Misselthwaite, is offering her “a unique opportunity” to work in what they call “Content Development”. If she understands correctly, she’ll get to contribute to what students at Hogwarts, and possibly other magical institutions, will learn as they discover and hone their magic.

She rushes to her desk and scratches out a response. The writing is hasty and messy, so unlike her, but she doesn’t find that she’s concerned with perfectly blocked lines so much as she is with communicating her enthusiasm for the offer.

Her enthusiasm wanes, however, when she remembers she doesn’t have an owl, both owls that visited her today left in a rush, and this village is muggle. The fleeting thought that Malfoy will help her brings a chuckle, but she’s sure she’ll figure out a way to send her reply.

She folds the parchment and tucks it away deciding to spend the remainder of the afternoon listening to the rain.

* * *

Two days. Two days was the limit of time she was willing to wait before seeking the help of Draco Malfoy.

The late morning sun blazes and a trail of sweat begins to inch it’s way down her back on the short walk from her garden to the shallow woods separating her from the Malfoys.

When she emerges from the woods her breath catches in her throat. The field is blanketed in a wash of purple blossoms. Lavender. How did she miss that almost the entire field was lavender? 

Heat shimmers up with the bright, medicinal scent and Hermione lets her steps slow and her fingers trail over the flowers. The buds are velvety, the aroma more delicate than the piney leaves on the shrubs. 

Closing in on Malfoy’s cottage she hears his voice call to Scorpius toward the back of the property. She makes her way around the side to find another sight that draws her up short—a shirtless Draco Malfoy harvesting lavender… by hand.

His skin is pale, bright in the almost midday sun, and he glistens with a sheen of sweat from the exertion of his work. He brings his body to full height and wipes the perspiration from his brow with the back of his left forearm. 

She sees it then. The Dark Mark; grey and ruined at the death of it’s master. She knows, logically, she should be disgusted, enraged, have some sort of vehement negative emotion at the sight of it, but her years since the war have taught her many things. One among them is that some of her peers didn’t have a choice. Harry wasn’t given a choice about his involvement, raised as he was to be a sacrifice; and for all the vitriol he threw her way during their years at school, Draco Malfoy was used as a pawn to do Voldemort’s bidding. A sacrifice in his own right. But the Wizarding world likely doesn’t see his time suffering as a penance worthy of forgiveness. 

But that little boy; that beautiful, charming, vivacious little boy is a testament to the lessons Malfoy surely learned during his time on the altar of war. 

“Hermione!” Scorpius’s sweet voice rings over the short expanse and Malfoy whips his eyes toward hers.

She sends them both an uneasy little wave and tries to put on her brightest smile for the lovely young man who is always so happy to see her.

“Granger,” Malfoy’s voice is heavy with the strain of the work he’s been doing. Hermione can see several bushels of lavender surrounding his place in the field. “What oh so joyous occasion brings you in our presence this fine day?” 

His sarcasm laced voice makes it all too easy  _ not _ to be distracted by the tight lines of his chest, the strong slope of his shoulders, and the cut of his abdominals underlined by his low slung denims. No. She is not going to appreciate his finely honed body.

Shaking her head clear and fixing her eyes on his, she finally speaks, “How do I send an owl around here?”

“Have some important correspondence do you?”

“I’ll have you know I was offered a job.” The lilt of antagonism taints her answer and she scolds herself internally for falling into their old ways. “Anyway,” she softens her approach, “I don’t have an owl and it has not escaped my notice that this is a  _ mostly _ muggle village.”

“That it is,” he agrees, “but I think I can help you.” He doesn’t sound excited, but she’ll take the help.

He goes back to picking lavender. Scorpius follows his lead and she watches as he snips some stems and adds them to the bushels, then uses one to tease Ollie. She’s giggling before she can stop herself and Malfoy is looking at her once more. “What are you waiting for, Granger? The faster it's picked, the faster you get what you want.” He tosses an empty bushel basket toward her, holds up his shears and demonstrates his technique. 

Scorpius looks pleased to have her along and he cuts a bit more lavender before he’s loping across the field, his winsome shrieks echoing over them.

* * *

She has no idea how much area they’ve cleared when he finally,  _ finally,  _ declares them done. But her back aches and she absolutely reeks of lavender and sweat. “Not too bad, Granger. Think you have some strength left in those hands?”

Flexing her knuckles a few times, she looks at him skeptically, “I suppose I do, but… aren’t we done here?”

“Done? We need all the raw ingredients today. Can’t stop now.”

He turns to walk away and she calls out. “What about my letter?” 

He stops and looks over his sun-reddened shoulder at her, “We’ll take care of your letter.” He starts walking again and stops when he realises she’s not following, “Look alive, Granger, we’ve got things to do.”

With nothing else to do she shrugs and follows after him, ducking into a rustic barn on the far side of the property.

They find Scorpius in the barn, his arms waving in great animated circles as he relays some grand story to a stall of goats. They bleat and gripe in time with his story and he responds as if they certainly understand each other. Ollie is resting comfortably on the back of the largest nanny, her coat spotted brown down her flanks and her blue eyes fixed on the young Malfoy.

When the tribe spots the elder Malfoy their bluster picks up and they filter toward the platform at the end of the stall.

“Malfoy,” Hermione can’t hide the confusion in her voice, “what’s the story with the goats?” 

Malfoy looks affronted, “ _ The goats _ have names if you please.” He leans over the gate and scratches a black and white one behind the ear. “Isn’t that right Esmerelda?”

“ _ Esmerelda? _ ” 

Malfoy gives her a challenging look and she raises her hands in supplication, “Hello, Esmerelda,” she offers as she reaches over to give the goat a scratch of her own.

The volume of the goats rises as the moment lingers and Malfoy jerks his head toward the platform at the end of the barn. She follows, her curiosity peaking, and he motions for her to take a seat on the low stool.

“I’m not sure…”

“Granger,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “just sit on the stool. If you’re anything like the girl I knew in school, you’re up for the challenge.”

Emboldened by his assessment, she settles onto the stool. Scorpius is all smiles as he leads Esmerelda up a short ramp and onto the low platform. Between her and Hermione, Esmerelda is the only one who knows what’s going on and stands dutifully waiting. Hermione looks to Malfoy once more to find him far too amused with the whole situation. “A little guidance perhaps?”

Malfoy is holding back his amusement, but points to the bucket to her right. She picks it up and holds it in her lap. He rolls his eyes, “You can’t expect to collect milk with the bucket in your lap.”

She bites her tongue and puts the bucket under the goat’s udders. Esmerelda gets a little antsy and shuffles her hooves, bleating at the incompetent human tasked with her milking. Hermione waves a hand toward the goat, “Again, a little guidance. I’ve never milked anything.”

“It’s easy, Hermione.” Scorpius steps in, he reaches out with a small chubby hand, this thumb and forefinger wrapping around the top of the nearest udder, then the remaining fingers rolling down, the milk shooting out into the clean bucket below. “See. Easy. Just trap and roll.”

“Just trap and roll, huh?” She gives him a smile and he nods.  _ Sure thing. Just that easy. _ She takes a deep breath and reaches out, her fingers wrapping around the top to the udder. It’s warm and firm, full of the creamy milk Scorpius so easily expressed. She gives her fingers a roll down the udder and… nothing.

She sucks in a determined breath and tries again. Still nothing. Pulling her hands away Hermione shakes them out and reaches forward with new conviction. But a hand on hers stops her possibly overzealous approach.

She can feel warmth at her back and the firm muscles of his arm are settled intimately along hers, his larger hand enveloping hers as he guides her fingers around Esmerelda’s udder.

“Trap and roll.” His voice rumbles through his chest and through her person as his fingers wrap around hers and he shows her the technique to finally fill the bucket with milk.

The ting of the liquid into the bucket is more satisfying than Hermione imagines it would be. And she traps and rolls one udder then the next until Esmerelda and Malfoy seem satisfied that the udder is empty. 

Malfoy gives the tolerant goat a light tap on the rump and she trots down from the platform and out into the fenced enclosure through the barn doors. 

Scorpius peers over into the bucket and gives her a thumbs up as he leads the next goat up the ramp. “Good job, Hermione! It took me ages to get it right.” 

Hermione gives him a genuine smile and proceeds to milk two more goats; the bucket soon full of pungent, fresh milk with rich cream floating to the top.

“Not bad for a rookie, Granger.”

All the goats are in the outside enclosure. She watches as Scorpius fills the trough with hay and buckets of what look to be kitchen scraps. The goats bleat merrily as they munch and frolic, a few of the smaller ones butting Scorpius with their heads as he laughs at their antics.

The ache in Hermione’s hands is quelled by the sweet sound of Scorpius’s innocence, but she soon remembers her purpose in coming here today. Turning as Malfoy pours the last of the milk into a holding canister she asks, “So my letter?”

Malfoy casts a quick charm over the milk and it occurs to Hermione it’s the first magic she’s seen him perform since she stumbled upon him here. He starts to walk from the barn and turns to look at her as he reaches the door, “You coming, Granger?”

Scorpius seems content with the goats, Ollie is purring away in a sunny barn window and a still shirtless Malfoy is striding toward the house. Hermione hurries from the barn and as she watches Malfoy pull his discarded shirt over his head she allows herself a moment to appreciate the ripple of muscles in his torso. 

He raises his eyebrows at her, seemingly catching her in her appraisal and resumes his walk toward the house, a hint of amusement on his face.

Following him through the back door, Hermione pauses in shock at the kitchen. This kitchen is so far removed from any preconceived idea of Draco Malfoy. The butcher block island is well-used; the surface marred with slices from one one of the designer knives nestled in a nearby block. A sturdy rack hangs over the island, shining copper pots dangling among bundles of drying herbs. This kitchen is so similar to the one she’s spent so many hours in at the Burrow. She forces herself to hold her judgement, obviously, she knows nothing about this man. 

Malfoy washes his hands at the deep apron sink before lifting the lid of a dutch oven bubbling away on the hob. He takes a greedy breath of the aromatic steam rising from the surface before dipping a clean spoon into the broth for a sample. His lips purse in consideration and he steps to the rack to pluck a sprig of dried thyme. He adds the savory herb, a sprinkle of roughly ground salt and replaces the lid with a satisfied nod of his head.

Hermione observes all this, so frozen in shock at the degree of domesticity that she forgets her original purpose. But any fleeting thought of her response to Constellation Press is derailed by a panicked cry from Scorpius as he comes flying into the kitchen, fat tears rolling down his cheeks and Ollie skidding in behind him with a persistent yowl.

The notion that she is good in a crisis is dispelled in an instant when she continues to stand dumbly at the end of the island as Malfoy calmly sets his spoon on a rest and scoops his frantic son into his arms. “What happened, Scorp?” There it is again, Scorp, but this time with such a gentle timbre she aches for those long past years when her father tended her childhood emergencies with the same care. 

Her forward motion in the next moments is unconscious at best, but she finds herself standing next to Scorpius as his father perches him on the edge of the island for a full assessment. Ollie nudges her leg and reflexively she picks him up to be closer to the darling boy he’s bonded with. Straining to be closer, Ollie stretches out a soft paw to touch Scorpius’s shoulder and Ollie is rewarded with a watery smile from the now calming child.

“I don’t see any bones poking through the skin, or missing limbs. What’s wrong, Scorpius?”

She has never seen a bottom lip poke out and quiver in such a cute way, not even on Bill and Fleur’s bewitching little Victoire; but here is Scorpius, his lip trembling pitifully and his eyes magnified by tears as he presents his right palm to his father, and all she wants to do is gush about how adorable he is, maybe hug him, but she valiantly resists the urge.

“I… I… got a splinter…” He sniffs and wipes his wet face on the back of his other arm, “on the fence.”

Malfoy gives him an amused look, “Were you walking the tightrope again?”

Another sniff and a subtle nod from Scorpius and Malfoy answers with a small chuckle, “I’m sure it was your greatest performance yet. But let’s get this splinter out shall we?” Scorpius nods again and watches with wide eyes as his father aims the tip of his wand at the angry red place where the splinter breached the skin and with a warm rush of magic, the offending piece of wood slides out with little fanfare.

Sensing his playmate is on the mend, Ollie squirms in Hermione’s arms and jumps to the floor on padded paws. Hermione remains transfixed on the vision of Malfoy in his role as expert, veteran parent. He waves his wand with practiced efficiency, cleaning and soothing the tiny cut; then his calloused fingers run over the place where the splinter once lay and Scorpius smiles up at his father glowing with love, gratitude, and relief. Malfoy lifts the healed hand to his mouth and lays a gentle kiss to Scorpius’s palm before guiding him to the floor so the energetic lad can, no doubt, return to his tenure as a “circus performer”.

Her mouth hangs open as Scorpius disappears through the back door and Malfoy resumes his bustling around the kitchen as if he’s not just shifted her world off its axis.

“Don’t just stand there, Granger. If you’re staying for dinner, you can at least help.”

A heartbeat, a mere moment passes before she answers, “Alright. What can I do?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear from you in the kudos or reviews!
> 
> And, Mcal, you lovely human, thank you for all your support and help with this story.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

“...And then Gloria jumped right over the fence!” Scorpius bounces up and down on his knees in his chair, as he entertains the adults seated on either side of him at the kitchen island. Only dregs of savory stew and crumbs of crusty bread sit in their bowls.

“Over the fence? That must have been quite a leap?” Hermione tries to be serious, biting her lip to contain her laughter.

Malfoy grunts from Scorpius’s other side, “She knocked down the fence first, so her  _ leap _ was more of jaunty bound than anything.”

Hermione does give in to her amusement this time, giggling into her napkin right along with the peals of laughter coming from Scorpius.

“It was so funny, Hermione! Dad chased after Gloria,” he gasped through guffaws, “He goes to grab her…” He’s laughing again, “then...then.. He jumps, and…” 

_ “Annnnnd _ ?” She prompts. But Scorpius can’t answer, overtaken by his giggles once more.

Malfoy sighs, “I missed.” It’s mumbled and she almost doesn’t hear it.

“What was that, Malfoy?” She puts her hand to her ear and a teasing glint in her eye, “You, the Great Slytherin Seeker, missed…  _ the goat? _ ” 

“Yes. Fine.” He rolls his eyes, “As I grabbed for her she faked left and I fell into a mud puddle.”

Scorpius leans into Hermione, both fully given over to the hilarity. Once calmer, she asks, “And what of Gloria? Did you eventually catch her?”

“When she evaded me, she trotted back to the pen happy as you please.” A hint of a smile breaks through his valiant effort to remain unaffected, and Hermione tells herself she’ll reflect later on the way it transforms his entire being.

Rising from his seat, Malfoy begins to clear the dishes and sets them to wash. “Scorpius, it’s time for you to get cleaned up and get in bed.”

“But Daaadd,” he whines. “Hermione’s still here… and… and I bet I can think of a bunch more funny stories to tell her.”

“Scorp.” His tone is clear and Scorpius quiets, but Malfoy puts a hand on his shoulder and bends to look him in the eye, “She keeps popping up. Even without an invitation. I’m certain we’ll see her again,” he glances at her with a smirk, “besides, she can help me with the soap while you get ready for bed.”

Scorpius turns to her. “Will you say goodbye before you go?” 

She is confused, and replies, “Of course, but…” Scorpius wraps his arms around her legs and she bends to return the hug, the scent of the day is thick in his hair, warm and dusty undertones by his sweet-smelling sweat. Then he rushes off and she turns to his father, “What am I meant to help with now? You certainly require a high price to send an owl.”

“You’ve always enjoyed being a busybody. Don’t pretend you don’t love getting a glimpse into my life.” 

He’s teasing her. She knows he’s teasing her, but like a reflex she engages, “Don’t flatter yourself, Malfoy. If you think I’ve spent even a moment contemplating your goings on, you’re barmy.”

“Admit you’re at least curious.” His arms are crossed over his chest and his smirk is challenging before he turns toward the back door.

His hand is on the doorknob when she answers, “I’ll admit nothing.” He huffs a laugh and flings the door open, she scuttles out the door in the wake of his long purposeful strides.

* * *

The evening air clings to the moist heat of the afternoon in vain as a breeze cuts across the fields harkening the cool night. The goats fuss in the barn when Malfoy ducks inside for the milk they gathered earlier. 

Levitating the canister, Malfoy steps to the back side of the barn. A wave of his wand later, a door is revealed and he steps inside, Hermione following him before he replaces the wards.

Hermione wanders the perimeter of the room, inspecting the stacks and loaves of soap. The air is filled with the scents of lavender, peppermint, and something sweet… maybe honey? “Open the window while you’re doing nothing else, Granger.” 

She sends a pitiful glare over her shoulder, but pushes up the sash. “Will Scorpius be okay inside by himself?”

“Granger,” his look is admonishing, “I wouldn’t do anything to put my son in danger. I have wards, and in case you’ve forgotten, I’m a wizard. I can literally disappear and reappear in the blink of an eye.” 

“I have not forgotten. Destination, deliberation, and determination. Now what is all this?” She motions to the room around them.

Malfoy begins gathering supplies onto a steel table in the middle of the space, “You see Granger, turns out that being good at potions makes me a dab hand at soap making.”

“You  _ made _ all this soap?”

He smirks, “Sure did. And the soap you undoubtedly purchased from the Collingsworths’ shop on market day.”

She can only look at him in question. “There’s no time to get into that now.” He points to the open shelf above her, “bring that bowl over and the bottle of almond oil.” 

Gathering the two items she joins him at the table. Malfoy adds that, several other oils, and a solid block of beeswax to one bowl and casts a visible charm to monitor the temperature of the contents. “Have your wand, Granger?”

She does have her wand. It's a habit to carry it, but she finds that she’s had little use of it here in the country. Taking it out, the magic courses up her arm and into her being, the thrum of it in sync with the beat of her heart.

“Cast a warming charm, but make it a gentle one, we don’t want to overheat the oils, just allow them to combine thoroughly with the beeswax” She nods once and casts. The temperature rises slowly and soon the liquid within is clear and golden. “Now, release the charm and we’ll let this cool.” He pushes the bowl aside, the temperature charm glowing above it. “Ready for the fun part?”

“This isn’t the fun part? Have you been holding out on me?”

A smock, pair of gloves, a mask, and goggles are thrust in her face. “Just put these on.”

She dons the gear as Malfoy does then stands waiting for instruction. He pulls the other large bowl to the middle of the work space and fills it with frosty goat milk.

“Why is the milk almost frozen?”

“Color me delighted, I’m about to teach The Great Know-It-All something!” He allows a moment of hearty guffaw before he abruptly ceases. “You’re about to see chemistry in action Granger. It’s like potions, but no magic”

The crinkle in the corner of his eyes tells her that he’s smirking, but she can’t resist his baiting, “I’m aware of the basic concepts of chemistry, thank you.”

“Excellent,” He deadpans, “This," he holds up a container of white crystals, "is Sodium Hydroxide, lye. Very caustic, but essential to the process. As the lye dissolves in the milk, it releases heat. So much so that the milk can scorch. You chill it to almost freezing to offset this.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“See,” his eyebrows raise behind the goggles, “You  _ don’t know _ everything.”

Hermione shrinks into herself a bit, “I never said I did. I just like to learn things.”

Malfoy nods and continues, “Very well, cast the  _ Caliditas _ charm.”

The magic embraces her as she waves her wand over the bowl and glowing numbers appear indicating the temperature. “Watch the temperature rise as I add the lye.” He pours a portion of the white crystals into the slushy milk and the numbers glowing above the mixture begin to climb, the color changing from cool blue to violet. He stirs and adds a bit more of the lye, the temperature climbing higher. After two more additions, the numbers glow a steady red, and the lye is dissolved into the milk.

“Now we prepare the molds.” He hefts a wooden frame onto the table. “Parchment paper.” He’s pointing across the room and she rushes over to get the roll. As soon as it’s in his hand, he lines the inside of the mold. 

“When does it become soap exactly?”

“I’m so glad you asked, Granger.” She wishes he could see her pursed lips to get the full effect of her glare, but her squinted eyes will have to do for now.

He seems to delight in her ire, but carries on with his task. “Cast a gentle cooling charm on the bowl of oils, we want it around thirty-five degrees celsius.”

She casts on the bowl of oils while he sets a charm to cool the milk and lye mixture. “Ready, Granger?” She nods once and steps back as he slowly pours the milk and lye into the oils. He thrusts a stir stick into her hand. “Give it a stir.”

Hermione is so mesmerized by the swirl of the creamy, pale yellow liquid around the stirrer, she startles at the feel of Malfoy’s hand stilling hers. “Let it rest a bit.” His voice is calm and even, just as the beats of her heart in the moments before his touch.

Stepping back she watches as he gathers jars of dried lavender blossoms and honey. As he’s moving items on a shelf, he turns to her and instructs her to stir again for two minutes. 

The distraction is timely, because she was starting to think she was affected by the presence and touch of Draco Malfoy. She picks up the stick and drags it through the soap, counting off the seconds to keep her mind occupied. It works. She doesn’t feel his heat at her back as he looks over her shoulder, “See how the lines remain as you stir?” His voice is quiet, but she startles before she bobs her head in short nods. “That’s called trace.”

He stills her hand once more and nudges her to the side offering the jar of lavender petals. Motioning with his head and holding up a jar of honey he begins to pour the honey into the soap, the golden, viscous liquid sinking below the surface as Hermione sprinkles the surface with the gentle purple blooms. 

He stirs the soap, the trace of the mixture more evident now, as only the sound of crickets and the faint bustling of the goats floats in through the open windows. 

The finished mixture flows into the mold in smooth ribbons, filling the empty space. Malfoy purses his lips and tilts his head, then another jar of lavender is floating toward them. He catches it with practiced ease. Deft fingers sprinkle more blossoms on top of the soap, an effortless art of embellishment.

“Wow,” she breathes which seems to bring Malfoy back to the present.

“You really do love learning new things.” It’s not a question. She knows the look on her face is one of accomplishment and wonder and she nods.

They remove the protective gear in silence. “I’d better be going,” Hermione says, tucking a curl behind her ear. He doesn’t answer her just watches as she turns, but before she’s out the door he calls, “Don’t forget to say goodbye to Scorpius.”

The door jamb anchors her as she turns back to him, “Of course.” 

Malfoy busies himself tidying, possibly to fill the awkward silence that now surrounds them. “I don’t know why he’s so taken with you.” His tone flippant, “But I'd prefer to not have him disappointed if you forget.”

There’s the Malfoy she knows. The one that doesn’t teach her things and is eager to be rid of her. Not engaging with him, she walks back to the house and invites herself in through the back door.

When she calls Scorpius’s name he comes rushing in from the front room, his pajamas covered in little snitches and a book held in his hands. 

“I just wanted to say, ‘goodnight’.”

A yawn erupts from his mouth and somewhere in there she thinks a ‘goodnight’ might have snuck through. She ruffles his damp hair and gives him a smile as she ducks out the back door and he returns to his book.

Hermione’s at the edge of the house when she hears a soft, “Goodnight, Granger.” Malfoy stands in the yard, hands are in his pockets, disheveled hair blowing in the breeze, the first hints of moonlight glinting off the strands.

“Goodnight, Malfoy.” 

Once home, she showers the day off, diligent to ignore the familiar scent of lavender in her soap. But as she tucks into bed, memories wash over her and visions of two blonds play behind her eyelids.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mcal, as always, thank you for all your support and beta help with this story! 
> 
> For anyone interested, the process they use to make soap, is an abridged breakdown for making cold process soap. I had a blast researching that, because I'm a total science geek! It was very difficult not to have Draco explain the science of saponification to Hermione. LOL! 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this new installment, and I'd love to hear from you in the reviews and kudos! Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LightofEvolution gifted me with the gorgeous aesthetic on this week's chapter! Thank you, sweet friend!

* * *

The bell over the door of the apothecary jingles as Hermione browses more soap. Every bar is perfect in it’s imperfections and simplicity. That she knows Draco Malfoy’s hands have had a part in the crafting of each bar makes them feel somehow more significant. That a man who knew such horrors—such darkness—can find joy in raising goats, cutting lavender, and learning how to make soap with muggle chemistry makes her feel even further away from her goal of finding her purpose in life.

“Hermione!” A small body barrels toward her and she instinctively scoops him up into her arms as his joy collides into her. The weight of him in her arms is exhilarating and she luxuriates in the pressure of his hug.

Malfoy eyes her across the shop as he approaches Mrs. Collingsworth, a parcel of what she is sure is more gorgeous soap in his hands. 

“Hermione, it was amazing!” Scorpius wiggles down and starts gesticulating with his arms, “We. Were. Flying.”

Eyes wide she puts her finger to her mouth hoping to quiet him a bit, not wanting him to break the Statute of Secrecy due to his excitement. “That’s incredible, Scorpius. I hope you were safe.” 

“My dad would _never_ let anything happen to me.” She knows this. She’s seen how Malfoy cares for his son. He’s a good father.

Before Scorpius can continue his story, Mrs. Collingsworth is scurrying toward them, arms full of soap and a face full of reprimand. “Surely your father didn’t have you out on his motorbike?” Malfoy shrugs, his smirk unapologetic as he steps up behind Scorpius to put a hand on his shoulder. Mrs. Collingsworth mutters something about men and dangerous hobbies as she busies herself stocking the shelves.

Scorpius is so visibly excited he tries to go on, “No, we were—” The rest is muffled by Malfoy’s hand over his mouth and a grunted reminder to keep the true story of their flying a secret.

Hermione is aware her mouth is hanging open and Malfoy raises an eyebrow at her in challenge. “You have a motorbike?” This is not the craziest thing she’s ever heard, but it’s another piece to the puzzle that is a grown-up Draco Malfoy.

He shrugs again. He’s far too pleased with himself for surprising her. Scorpius squirms free and ducks around Hermione to help the shop owner. “I’m just full of surprises, Granger.”

“Aren’t you though.” She wanders away with her own smirk and continues to browse the shop; Malfoy’s eye catching hers at various moments before they finally go their separate ways for the afternoon.

* * *

That evening she’s tucked into her couch reading, a cup of tea going cold on her end table when, along with the summer breeze, a bright figure leaps through her open window.

Hermione has seen plenty of patronuses, she doesn’t know whose this one is, but its size startles her and her teacup falls, the shattered remains mingling with her ignored tea. The shimmering wolf seems agitated as it paces before her and she is holding her breath waiting for its message.

“Granger, I need your help with Scorpius. Please come immediately.”

Silvery strands melt into the night air as she bolts from her couch and disapparates to Malfoy’s door.

No sooner does the pop of her apparition fade across the field, does Malfoy fling the door open and usher her inside.

“Where is Scorpius? Is he alright?” 

Malfoy doesn’t slow his steps, and Hermione finds herself following him up the stairs stopping only when they reach the door of his bedroom. His wand flicks in agitated little movements as clothing flies across the room and into a travel case on his bed. “Malfoy! Scorpius!”

He dismisses her with a wave, “Yes, he’s fine, Granger. He’s asleep.”

“Then why am I here?”

He drops his wand to the bed and rubs over his temples and his eyes. “It’s my father. He’s had an accident. That’s all mother could tell me.”

“Forgive me if I don’t know what that has to do with me.”

“I can’t take Scorpius there. Not with my father like this and Mother in a panic.” He sighs and collapses on the edge of the bed, his posture slumped as he rubs the back of his neck. When he finally looks up, his eyes beg her, “He’s starting to have more frequent bouts of accidental magic and you’re the only other magical person I know here.”

Desperation surrounds him as he stands and approaches her. “Please, Granger. He likes you, and if I’m not mistaken, you like him as well?”

“Of course I do.” 

“So you’ll keep him? Three days maximum.”

“I will.” He steps away and resumes his packing as she retreats downstairs, finding herself in the kitchen.

When he comes in, she’s rifling through his cupboard, “At least wait till I’m gone to snoop.”

“I’m not snooping. I need tea.” She grumbles.

Reaching over her, he pulls a canister from the shelf. She nods and adds the loose leaves to the tea pot she already found. 

Malfoy is still standing in the kitchen when she turns around. “I’m off then.” and he raises his wand to apparate away.

“Wait!” He lowers his wand, his face almost relieved, “What about the goats?”

A short laugh huffs from his throat, “There is a list on the table. Scorpius knows the routine, but he’s only six, so he needs a fair bit of direction still.”

She sees the parchment on the table and nods. “Safe travels then.” He nods again and hesitates, and before Hermione can overthink it she says, “I hope everything works out with your father.” 

And then he’s gone.

* * *

_Spells fly over her head. She ducks and weaves through the woods, bark and leaves raining down on her as she tries to escape. The shouts of her pursuers echo off the trees leaving her with no bearings._

_An old barn appears in a clearing ahead and she pushes her legs to carry her faster. She’s inside in an instant and climbing the ladder to the hay loft. The mounds of hay offer her cover and she wills her heart and her breath to slow and quiet as footsteps pound around the exterior of the barn._

_She is still. Not daring to move before she’s sure they’ve retreated._

_Then the shaking begins._

_The whole barn rocks to and fro, the security of the hay pulling away and she’s sure any moment they will burst in and discover her_.

_A distant voice calls, “Hermione.”_

_They know her name._

_She tries to grasp for the hay, more cover to hide her._

_“Hermione!” Louder this time. Someone grasps her arm._

“Hermione!”

Her eyes shoot open and a scared little boy is standing before her in hippogriff covered pajamas.

Bolting up from her makeshift bed on the sofa, Hermione let’s instinct pull Scorpius into a hug. “I’m so sorry. I was having a bad dream.”

He nods against her and sniffs, then climbs onto the couch tucked into her side, Ollie joining them along the back of the sofa. “Why are you here? Where’s my dad?”

“There was an emergency with your…” she fumbles, what kind of relationship does Scorpius have with Lucius? “With his father… your grandfather.”

“Is Nana Cissa okay? And my dad?”

Hermione tightens her grasp for a moment, “Yes, they’re both just fine.” He nods against her and squirms out of her grasp, Ollie gives her a head bump and follows his young companion.

Scorpius disappears up the stairs and is back in a few moments, dressed and seemingly ready for his day. “Hermione, why are you still sitting there? We have to take care of the goats.”

Rising from the sofa, she takes stock of her outfit. Loose sleep pants and an old Hogwarts shirt, there are some shoes here somewhere, but she’s sure they won’t work for a day as a goat farmer. “Scorpius, I think we need to walk to my house so I can get some different shoes,” she tells him as she retrieves her fluffy slippers from beneath the couch at last and holds them up with a shrug.

He giggles into this hand. “Are those dragons?”

Hermione looks down at the slippers, the dragons’ plush scales glittering in an iridescent purple and she giggles too.

“But the goats are hungry.” He looks thoughtful for a moment, “Your feet can fit in dad’s boots.” Then he’s rushing out of the room calling for her to hurry up.

The boots sit innocuous enough on the back stoop. They are scuffed with a layer of dust on them, boots that know what manual labor is. Hermione slides her feet in, tucks in the hem of her pants, laces the boots and follows Scorpius into the barn. 

Malfoy was right, Scorpius knows the routine and even helps keep her on track. Soon the goats are milked and fed, their stall is cleared and fresh hay added. She’s never been more thankful for magic. Hay bales are quite heavy.

“We need to get the eggs and feed the chickens, then we can have breakfast.” Scorpius is dragging her to a small coop outside the barn

“You have chickens too?”

He looks at her like she’s crazy, “Of course we have chickens. Where do you think we get eggs?”

“My mistake,” she mutters and trails along after him. 

Once back in the house, she checks the list. _At least the morning chores are complete_. Scorpius instructs her in the delicate art of scrambling eggs just like his dad does it, and judges her adequate at the task. She ruffles his hair as he shovels the fluffy eggs in his mouth. His confidence in her feels good.

* * *

“Hermione,” he calls from her front room, “you sure do have a lot of books.”

Stepping from her bedroom with a now appropriately packed bag, she smiles at him as he looks up in awe at her book collection, “Yes, I like to read.” She tousles his hair for the hundredth time that day and motions for him to follow her out the front door.

The rumble of an engine draws their attention toward the road, neither expecting the car to come to a stop in front of Hermione’s cottage. Hermione is doubly surprised when Harry Potter emerges closely followed by Ginny.

“Harry! Ginny!” She rushes forward to hug them both. “What are you doing here? Where’s James?”

Harry throws his arm around his wife and she cuddles into his side, “This one here,” Ginny nudges him with her shoulder, “Surprised me with a getaway for the two of us. Mom has James for a few days and we’ll have some time to ourselves before Albus makes an appearance.”

Hermione smiles at her friends; Ginny is glowing and Hermione can’t help but reach out to gently caress her bump. 

“Who’s that?” Harry is looking around the two women to the small blond boy standing on the stoop cradling a black cat.

“Well… that’s Scorpius. Scorpius Malfoy.” Hermione offers and she waves Scorpius over.

Ollie jumps down as Scorpius trots over. Harry offers his hand to the young boy, “How do you do? I’m Harry Potter.”

Scorpius doesn’t hesitate to shake Harry’s hand, “I’m Scorpius Malfoy. Are you _really_ Harry Potter?”

Harry looks down at himself, then to the two women as if confirming his identity, “I believe so. Have you heard of me?” He’s enjoying this far too much.

A look of awe is on Scorpius’s face and Hermione wonders for a moment just what Malfoy would have said to his son about a boy he held largely in contempt for most of their youth. But he’s surprised her before, so what’s to say he won’t surprise her now.

“My dad said you made things good again.”

Harry gives a noncommittal little shrug. He’s still so sweet and modest. Then he turns to Hermione, “May I have a word with you for a moment.” He’s smiling, but motions for them to step away from the Ginny and Scorpius.

“Tell me about your cat.” Ginny distracts Scorpius like a seasoned professional and he begins to yammer on about Ollie as they drift toward the side of the house.

“So,” Harry looks uncomfortable now, “Malfoy… has a kid… and you’re keeping him?” 

“What are you getting at Harry?”

“You’ve not mentioned Malfoy in any of your letters, and then last night… and now I find you here with his son.” It’s not an accusation, he’s just curious.

“He’s my neighbor,” she motions to the line of trees, “through the woods. He… wait, what happened last night?”

Harry rubs the back of his neck and glances to be sure Ginny and Scorpius are still out of earshot, “His father fell down the stairs. Mrs. Malfoy found him. The healers aren’t sure what caused the fall, could have been a stroke, could have been caused by a hallucination.”

“Hallucination?”

“Apparently, he’s not been well since the end of the war; mental and physical degradation from long term exposure to dark magic and the _Cruciatus_ curse.”

She had no idea. The Malfoy family became largely reclusive after the war, see Draco Malfoy, goat-farming-soap-maker as exhibit A. “How do you know all of this?”

“I was called out for the auror department to open Floo privileges to the healers. I actually saw Malfoy last night.” Now she knows he’s digging for something. One would think years interrogating criminals would teach some subtlety, but no, he’s as obvious as ever.

“I did too,” she gives him a tight grin, “I had to see him so he could ask me to keep Scorpius while he tended to his parents.”

“But, I mean, why you, Hermione?” He holds up his hands. “I mean, you’re obviously more than capable of taking care of a child… are you and Malfoy _involved_?” 

A laugh bursts from her, and she can’t stop it for several moments, “Oh, Harry! Of course, not!” She’s laughing again, but quieter this time, this situation really is absurd, but her life has been fairly absurd for years now. Is it so absurd to think she could be involved with Draco Malfoy? “We’re neighbors… by some random happenstance, and since Scorp is starting to have more accidental magic I was his only choice.”

A lopsided grin takes over Harry’s face, his eyes glinting playfully behind his glasses, “ _Scorp_ huh? Getting attached to his kid?” She pushes his shoulder, he barely budges, but he does laugh and draw her into his side with an arm around her shoulders, “Don’t get violent. I’m just teasing… Besides, Malfoy seemed alright last night. Called me Potter, instead of _Potty_ or _Scarhead_ , even shook my hand and said, ‘ _Thank you’_.”

“Harry Potter, is the bar _so low_ that calling you by your surname and giving you a handshake the litmus test for redemption?” He shrugs and waves it off.

They walk toward Ginny and Scorpius, the energetic boy running and bounding around Ginny as he tells her in great detail about flying with his father. Ginny, in keeping with her true self, performs a similar imitation of some daring maneuver she undoubtedly performed on the Quidditch pitch. Ollie, perched on the garden wall, follows the two playmates with his sharp eyes as they dart around one another.

Harry scoops up Scorpius as he dashes by before falling in a heap of messy hair, tangled limbs, and laughter. “James is a lot easier to do that with,” Harry groans as a still laughing Scorpius jumps up and takes flight once again, Ginny and Hermione leaning on each other as they giggle.

After standing, Harry dusts himself off and looks to Hermione, “We came by to see you, but I suppose we can accommodate one extra. You two want to go into the village for lunch?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great big THANK YOU to everyone who has read/reviewed/kudo'd! Y'all are amazing and hearing from you just makes my day!  
> Another great big THANK YOU to my wonderful alpha/beta Mcal! It's such a joy to work with you and have you as a friend!😘


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

The afternoon light plays in the swirls of dust that billows behind the car as Harry and Ginny drive away. Scorpius waves his arms in big arcs as their visitors fade into the countryside. 

“Come, young man, we have goats and chickens to tend… and you need supper.” Hermione leads him toward the barn, his face still lit with happiness from their impromptu day with her friends.

The second time performing the chores feels smoother, not effortless, but not foriegn. After the excitement of the day Scorpius sticks close and talks about spending time with Harry Potter. She hopes Malfoy isn’t going to be severely irritated when he finds out what a big Harry Potter fan his son just became.

Tucking him into bed that night feels somehow significant. He hugs her and tells her what a great day he had, even though she didn’t do the voices as good as his dad when she read his book. Then Hermione pulls the blankets up to his chin and he falls asleep almost immediately, Ollie curled in his side. 

Hermione tucks herself into the sofa again and stares at the ceiling for long minutes or maybe it’s hours, she doesn’t know. That the wonderful child slumbering upstairs puts his trust in her so easily fills her with a sense of responsibility and protection she’s not carried since becoming Harry’s friend.

* * *

Another day as Scorpius' caretaker goes well enough. Chores are done, meals prepared, and the house is in a reasonable state of order. Scorpius is playing with Ollie in the front room, the cat meowing in response to Scorpius’s questions and directions, but a sudden silence puts her on alert. 

She turns suddenly and Scorpius is there behind her, his little hands twisting in front of him and his feet shuffling beneath him. She bends to be at his eye level, “Scorp, is everything alright?”

His eyes drop to the floor and his voice is thick. “I miss my dad.”

A hug is the only remedy she has at the moment so she pulls him close and wraps him in her arms. “He’ll be home tomorrow.” He nods, but his body shakes with emotion. He has every right to miss his father—sometimes Hermione wants to cry because she misses hers—but maybe they can find some comfort in distraction. “Scorp, do you want to go outside and watch for fireflies?”

He peeks up from beneath moist lashes, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and nods with a little smile, “Me and dad do that sometimes.” Then he rushes off calling behind him, “I’ll get the blanket.”

Blanket in hand and Scorpius and Ollie in tow, the trio head out to the field. Scorpius takes the lead and shows Hermione the small cleared area, just big enough for the blanket to spread out. The ground is warm below them, lavender heavy on the breeze around them; and above them the sky is a kaleidoscope of pink, purple, and orange that bleeds into the deep blue of night. 

They’re quiet at first, letting the rhythm of dusk settle around them. It’s Scoprius that breaks the silence, “I wish dad was here.” 

“I know. He’s coming back.”

There’s a long pause before he speaks again, “My mum can’t come back though.”

Tears blur her vision and her throat feels tight. She can only hug him. It’s another thing they have in common, missing their mums.

He doesn’t cry this time, and no tears escape from Hermione’s eyes, but melancholy builds a cloud around them.

When she feels more in control of her voice and emotions, Hermione dares to speak. “I’m sorry that you have to miss your mum.”

“But, Hermione, I don’t really know what it’s like to have a mum.” There’s a long pause and what he says next is a whisper, “Maybe you could be my mum?”

The tears fall then, and she holds him tighter. “Oh, sweetheart, I would be thrilled to be your mum, but… ”

“I know it doesn’t work that way.” He’s so defeated and he sounds so small.

Hermione sits up and looks at him earnestly in the dim light, “I might not be able to be your mum, but I will be your friend. And you can talk to me about anything… anytime.” It’s an absolutely crushing hug that he gives her, and she returns it just as fiercely before he pulls away, swiping his eyes as Hermione does the same.

When they lay back again the sky is a deeper hue and stars are beginning to twinkle into existence; and from the lavender, fireflies swirl around them in a dance of blinking, winking lights.

* * *

Hermione blinks back into consciousness as the comfortable, solid warmth is removed from her side. Malfoy pauses above her as his son curls into his larger frame, “Sorry to wake you, Granger. Go back to sleep.” He disappears up the stairs, and she sits up on the sofa pushing her unruly hair off her face. 

Mugs of partially finished hot chocolate sit on the coffee table, and books lay open and discarded amid the toys. It had been a fun game, Scorpius likely making it up as he went along, but they’d laughed so hard. And when he lost his battle with sleep on her shoulder as she attempted to ‘do the voices’ in his favorite book, Hermione didn’t move him. Apparently sleep was a victor over her as well.

That leaving is not her first instinct should give her pause, but she ignores her  _ want  _ to stay and begins to bustle around the sitting room tidying up. She tells herself it’s to let Malfoy know that her time with Scorpius went without incident. She  _ does not _ need to know if Malfoy is alright. He probably won’t talk to her anyway.

“You don’t have to clean up.” She jumps, the arm load of toys falls, and she just manages not to scream. Malfoy bends to pick up the dropped toys. They continue together, silently reshelving books and tossing loose blocks into a basket. 

When there is nothing left to pick up, the silence becomes heavy and awkward. “I’ll just be going,” Hermione mumbles, but as her hand touches the doorknob he calls out, “Stay for a drink?”

She steps back toward the sofa as Malfoy disappears into the adjoining room. He returns with two Firewhiskys. The silence is only interrupted by the clink of ice on the sides of the glasses.

“Malfoy… Are you alright?”

He leans forward to set his glass on the coffee table, then rubs his hands over his face. “Yes? No… I don’t know.”

The impulse to help is so strong in Hermione that her mouth works before her brain can stop her, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He huffs a humorless laugh and digs his palms deeper into his eye sockets. “Do I have to talk about it?”

“No.”

The whisky is in his hand again and he gulps the burning liquid down his throat in one swallow. 

Hermione sips hers delicately. But they both recline back into the sofa, eyes staring at the ceiling as the alcohol dissolves the thick air around them and a comfortable silence settles.

“He’s my father.” Her heavy eyelids peel open and her head rolls to the side to look at him. He’s still staring upward, but he continues, seemingly lost in his thoughts. “I just never thought I’d have such conflicting feelings about my father.”

A hum is all she can offer. She doesn’t have much for Lucius Malfoy, but Draco Malfoy is becoming…  _ her friend?  _ Yes, she decides, he’s enigmatic and snarky… she’s just cared for his son for three days for crying out loud; they are, at the very least, casual friends at this point.

“I’m  _ so _ aware of his shortcomings as a member of society, but…” the struggle to put word to his feelings is evident, “He was the man who put me on his shoulders so I could watch the peacocks on the other side of the hedges, the one who taught me to fly my broom in the spring gardens of the Manor. Now… now he’s just a shell, and my mother is struggling, and I don’t know how to help either of them.”

She doesn’t know either and a platitude is empty solace.

Words cease as they both sit, listening to the melody of the country just outside the walls of the house. The crickets chirp in time with a lone tree frog that croaks from somewhere in the garden; and Hermione allows herself to sink into the comfort of the sofa and the quiet of the moment.

When the fresh morning sun breaks through the gap in the curtains and Hermione wakes, it’s to find herself tucked into the solid, warm side of Draco Malfoy. His arm is slung gently over her shoulder and her head is tucked in the crook of his arm. His face is peaceful with sleep, a gentle reminder of the effort he puts into his walls that keep others at a distance. 

She slides out from beneath his hold and mercifully he remains asleep. Socked feet pad across the floor to her discarded shoes without a sound and she slips from the house. Not unnoticed, because she’s halfway across the field as sleep bleary grey eyes watch her retreat back to the solitude of her cottage.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read/reviewed/left kudos! And as always, to Mcal, for being so encouraging throughout the writing and posting of this story and for her beta help!


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

The sun is high and a light breeze ambles across the high grass as she stares out the back window planning her approach. Hermione tries, really tries, to muster the courage to go back to Malfoy’s for her things, the small bag of clothes and a few spare books that she knows is sitting in the corner of his front room. Why? Why didn’t she pick up that bag before she escaped that morning? 

The thought of summoning it with a quick  _ Accio  _ crosses her mind more than once. She even raised her wand in the direction of the homely cottage through the woods, the spell forming on her lips before she thought better of a piece of luggage flying across a field in this muggle rich area.

Some Gryffindor she is. 

She paces the length of her home, growing more frustrated with herself by the moment. It’s a lovely day, and with the solstice approaching the daylight beckons well into the evening; surely a long walk will settle her. And if she finds herself at Malfoy’s door, then so be it, that’s where her feet led her. 

Gathering her resolve she flings open the front door and steps out into the warm embrace of the afternoon. 

A deep rumble echoes up the lane as she starts down her garden path, and before she can reach her gate, a black motorbike stops in front of her house. Killing the engine its rider dismounts, removing his helmet as he goes. The blond of his hair glints almost as bright as the chrome on his bike.

“You really do have a motorbike.”

“Can’t exactly fly my Firebolt all about the Cotswolds now can I?” He turns to lay the helmet on the seat and retrieves something from the saddlebag. Approaching her he discreetly enlarges his burden, her forgotten bag.

Reaching for it, Hermione grimaces “I was going to come get it… today.” It sounds like a question to her ears, and Malfoy hears it too, chuckling at her.

His face is still bemused when she returns from stowing her bag inside, “Fancy a ride, Granger?” His smirk is dangerous; playful and promising, as he motions toward his bike. 

Hermione lets the question hang on the air as she bites her lip in consideration. “Where’s Scorpius?” She stalling, she knows she’s stalling.

“With Mrs. Collingsworth. Her grandson is staying for a few days and he and Scorp get on great.”

The inclination towards shock that his son has a muggle friend is fleeting. Malfoy has done naught but prove he is a changed man. “And you expect me to ride on that…” she waves at the motorbike shining at the edge of the lane. “That thing.”

“Well we can’t very well walk. It’s much too far.” He’s smirking and still laughing at her reluctance.

“What’s too far? Where are you taking me? Why can’t we just Apparrate?” Why is she nervous? Surely by now they’ve spent an adequate amount of time in each other’s presence?

He steps toward her, almost as if he’s going to reach out and touch her. “Granger...” He softens his features. “I want to thank you for caring for Scorpius, and there’s something I want to show you.” Her shoulders fall in surrender. Now he does reach out for her hand, pulling her gently toward the motorbike. As he takes his place in the seat, he turns his eyes to her, “Get on the bike.” His command is quiet if not a bit vulnerable. So, with a sigh she straddles the leather seat behind him as he retrieves another helmet.

The positive click of the strap seems to signal him, “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she answers.

The vibration from the engine and Malfoy’s chuckle course through her as he pulls her arms around his middle. “You’ll want to hang on then.” And as he surges forth, Hermione grips him tighter. The feeling of clinging to Draco Malfoy for safety is not nearly as absurd as it might once have been.

* * *

The rolling hills of the English countryside stretch out before them in a verdant patchwork. Stone farmhouses dot the landscape and pastures of sheep seem to mirror the fleece of the clouds. Malfoy doesn’t push the limits of speed and Hermione allows herself to relax into the ride, her chest nestled into his back. The road turns to packed dirt and the trees grow thicker as the drives takes them deeper into the country. 

A flicker of magic washes over Hermione when the trees begin to open up once more. Malfoy slows the bike and brings it to a stop beneath an ancient oak standing sentinel at the base of a hill.

Dismounting, Malfoy stows the helmets and tucks a small parcel from the saddle bag in his pocket. “Do you mind walking from here, Granger?”

She shakes her head and they start up the hill. Magic grows thicker as they climb and when the top of the hill comes into view, the ruins of a castle shimmer into existence.

With a gasp, Hermione rushes forward, her hand caressing the time-worn stones with reverence. “This is beautiful.” When she turns to Malfoy to ask more about this place, she finds him observing her, half smile on his face and his hands shoved in his pockets. She tucks a loose curl behind her ear and returns his smile. “What is this place?”

He finally comes forward, his fingers trailing the wall. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know.”

“How can you not know!?” Knowledge is a currency Hermione trades in freely, not knowing would drive her mad.

He just shrugs, “I found it on a ride not long after I got the bike. The muggles don’t know it's here, likely never have, and you’ll have to excuse me if I didn’t run for the library to find out.”

The effort in her glare is half-hearted at best. 

“Besides,” he continues as he ducks into an archway, “the mystery makes it more exciting.” He winks and disappears.

Following him through the archway she’s completely taken by the beauty of the ruins. Sunlight filters in through cracks in the walls and plays in dappled patterns along the floor as it shines between the leaves and vines winding along the structure. The warm protective magic envelopes her, recognizing her as a kindred. She imagines in the days before the organized Ministry, and the Statute of Secrecy; when those with magic were hunted, this place may have welcomed and sheltered all those of magical blood.

“Malfoy?” Her voice bounces off the walls. “Malfoy, where did you go?”

He doesn’t answer, but the flow of magic draws her toward an arch in the back wall. She finds him there, standing at the remains of an old stone balustrade, the countryside stretching before him. Joining him feels like an intrusion, but he turns and stepping away from the railing he jerks his head for her to follow him.

There are large stones scattered along the slope and he offers his hand to help her descend. His grip is firm, warm and safe; and he doesn’t let go of her hand as he leads her to a spot beneath another gnarled oak.

When he does release her hand it’s to enlarge a picnic basket and spread a blanket in the shade of the tree.

She’s speechless. Draco Malfoy is laying out a picnic. A picnic he prepared for her.

“Butterbeer, Granger?” He’s lounging on the same plaid blanket where she watched for fireflies with Scorpius, and he’s surrounded by containers of marinated cheese, hummus, rounds of flatbread he probably made with his own hands, and a container full of colorful vegetables. He brings his own frosty bottle of butterbeer to his lips and raises his eyebrows to her almost in challenge.

Surreal. This entire scenario is surreal. But she accepts a beverage of her own and takes her place on the blanket across from him.

The afternoon sun ambles across the sky, the shade of the oak expanding as they enjoy the food and the embrace of the castle’s ancient magic.

“When did you move here?” Hermione asks, looking at the flatbread in her hand instead of him.

The rustle of his trousers as he shifts on the blanket is the only sound for a moment before he answers. “After Scorpius was born.” It’s a simple answer, vague, Malfoy doesn’t give much away. Hermione doesn’t push, curiosity be damned. “Why did you leave the Ministry?”

A small laugh escapes her, her debacle of a Ministry career feels like a lifetime ago. “They shoved me in a cubicle with a little rubber stamp and trotted me out for  _ special occasions _ .  _ ‘Look at us, we have the Golden Girl, aren’t we grand’ _ .” Her mocking tone earns a chuckle from Malfoy. “I wanted to change the world, but all I ever did was review business permits before they went to final approval.”

“And now?”

“Oh, I’m still going to change the world.” Their eyes finally meet. “It’s just going to look different from my original plan.” A real smile threatens his face.

An easy silence falls around them as they finish their picnic and Malfoy vanishes the rubbish and shrinks the hamper and blanket, replacing them in his pocket.

He offers his hand again and leads her back to the castle. “There’s something I want you to see.”

Pulling her into an alcove, he leads her up a hidden stone staircase. They emerge at the top of the structure and Hermione gasps. The county stretches before her in panorama, the afternoon sun bathing the fields in golden light. “It’s so beautiful.”

They stand side by side at the top wall of the ruins. Hermione chances a glance down and startles back. “Are you sure this thing is stable?”

“Of course, Granger,” he chuckles as he leans more of his weight onto the stones. After a moment of hesitation she steps back to the side, mimicking his posture.

“I never saw anything like this growing up.” Malfoy stares off into the distance, the retreating light reflecting in his eyes in a prism of colors. “The Manor grounds were so heavily warded… everything beyond a certain point was hazy. The first time I saw a proper sunset was at Hogwarts.”

Hermione stares off across the landscape, thinking of the way the sun would disappear over the highland crags surrounding her beloved school; the last rays of light glinting on the Black Lake as the squid splashed from its depths. And finally her voice finds purchase on her lips. “I remember the first time my parents and I went out to see the sunset.”

Lost in the memory, she doesn’t see him watching her. “I was five and we came to the cottage here. They took me out to the back garden and I lay between them on a blanket while the sky faded into orange and pink.” With her eyes closed she lets the feeling of that love and security wash over her and somewhere in her soul she feels the magic of the ruins console her in the sorrow at their loss. “A star finally winked into existence and my father told me to make a wish… But I didn’t have anything to wish for. I couldn’t imagine wanting more than I had at that moment.”

A silence falls around them, thick and charged; and when Malfoy speaks again his voice is almost a whisper. “Is there anything you’d wish for now?”

She can only nod in response, trying to blink away the tears building on her lashes.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are bowling me over with your reviews and kudos! I sincerely love hearing from everyone and thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading my little story! I'm so thrilled everyone is enjoying it!  
> Another big THANK YOU to my lovely alpha/beta Mcal! You're the best, my lovely friend!


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

The ride back to Malfoy’s cottage goes by in a blink, Hermione’s arms wrapped firmly around his middle and her faith firmly in his ability to deliver them safely.

They are back at his home only minutes when the Collingsworths deliver a jubilant Scorpius. He bounds from their truck with his usual bright smile and crashes into Hermione the moment he sees her. It surely hadn’t been that long since she’s seen him, but the weight of him in her arms and the tickle of his wild hair on her nose feels so familiar and comforting.

Malfoy receives an equally fervent embrace and Scorpius proceeds to regale them with all his adventures with his friend over the course of the afternoon.  _ Did you know that he could hold four toads at one time!? _

Hermione doesn’t remember being invited for a meal with the Malfoy boys, or accepting said invitation, but she laughs through a simple pasta dish and two glasses of wine and soon she finds herself looking over the lavender field from Malfoy’s back garden as he settles Scorpius in bed.

Distracted as she is listening to the evening song of the country, Hermione doesn’t hear Malfoy approach and is startled by the sudden warmth at her side. He chuckles at her little jump, and offers her a tumbler of firewhisky with a smirk.

They sip their drinks to the melody of the crickets and goats as the blanket of stars twinkles above them.

“Why did you move here?” The question leaves her mouth before she can stop it, but she finds that she’s curious about the answer.

Malfoy pulls a breath in through his nostrils, blowing it out with huff from his lips. “Scorpius was so small. He needed me. Needed my full attention. Needed a life not bogged down in expectation.”

Hermione glances back toward the house where she knows that sweet boy is sleeping snuggled up with Ollie. She let’s the companionship continue in silence for a few sips of her drink before finally plucking up the courage to ask. “Who is Scorpius’s mother?”

A drop of whisky almost escapes as she catches him off guard, but he catches it with a flick of his tongue and the armor falls in place. “Astoria Greengrass.”

She confirms that Astoria was, indeed, the younger sister of their classmate, Daphne, and finds herself curious about the young witch. “Will you tell me about her?”

There is a distance in his eyes as he considers her request. The liquid in his glass recedes as a slow sip passes his lips, and the moment seems to close in around them. As Hermione opens her mouth to dismiss her curiosity he whispers. “She had a beautiful smile.” The haunted look in his eyes dims and a glint of light begins to glow as he continues, “She would sing Celestina Warbeck under her breath while she dressed in the mornings.” A fond smile is on his lips now and he glances at Hermione to find a similar one on her face. Her own mother was constantly muttering her favorite tunes.

His gaze fades off into the distance. “Astoria wasn’t tainted by the darkness of the War. She was shipped off to family in France while this country fell apart, and she finished school at Beauxbatons. She was… Light and peace, and just… Everything I wasn’t and didn’t have.

“I don’t know what she saw in me, but she was such a sweet, forgiving person… I think she wanted to save me from myself.” Draco leans onto the stone wall, his head falling into his hands. “And then we were married and then she was pregnant...” He shakes his head, whether to disagree with himself or suppress the memory she doesn’t know.

“How did she die?”

The tension grows thicker, the question hangs in the night air, but after a deep breath he starts talking again. “When Scorpius was almost two months old, Astoria settled him for the night and came to bed.” He looks at her with a wry little smile, “We lived in a small quarters on the Manor property… I couldn’t live in  _ that _ house anymore.” Hermione nods, knowing that the forbidding house has been a feature in her nightmares and refuses to imagine what actually  _ living with  _ Voldemort might have been like. “She actually thanked me. Thanked me for making her a wife and mother. For letting her experience what it was like to know the love of a child.” He looks at her again, but doesn’t smile this time. “She kissed my cheek and went to sleep… And in the morning she was gone… Just like that…  _ Gone _ .”

She wants to reach out and touch him, rub a hand down his back, put her hand in his, hug him, but she stands silently as he continues. “It was a blood curse. Fulfilled by her bearing a child.” Hermione’s hand goes to her heart. “She knew. Knew what would happen to her. And I was so afraid to be a father, but she wasn’t afraid to die to become a mother… Even just for a moment.” Hermione does put her hand on him now. Her palm rests between his shoulder blades as his breath comes in deep gulps. She drags her hand side to side over the soft fabric of his shirt and slows her breathing, hoping that he will calm as well.

“You must have loved her very much.”

His gaze doesn’t waver from the moonlit field. “I didn’t love his mother.”

“What?” It comes out on a breath.

“I think she knew I didn’t love her like a husband should love a wife.” Hermione stands silently, watching Draco’s tense shoulders rise and fall. “I respected her and held her in high regard...I think I could have loved her. I hardly knew her.”

“Why did you marry someone you hardly knew?” Maybe it’s an insensitive question, but her curiosity gets the better of her; she wants to understand who this changed Draco Malfoy is.

An infinitesimal shrug graces his shoulders. “Who else was going to be with me? So, when my mother suggested her as a suitable match, I was selfish and pursued it.” Abruptly he stands to his full height, turning to face her, his eyes haunted and desperate, “I am responsible for her death.” He jams his index finger into his chest. “So you see? I was a coward, too afraid to end up alone, and once again, I caused irreversible consequences for other people. The Greengrasses lost a daughter, Daphne lost her sister… Scorpius lost his mother.”

“And you lost your wife.” Tears burn her eyes, but she refuses to look away from him. “You’re not a coward, Draco.” He scoffs, but she’s not deterred, “You dared to hope for love. Do you know what strength that takes? And look what you found: you are everything to that precious boy. He loves you more than anything in the world.” A serene look settles into his eyes at the mention of his son; the vibrant, happy little human no doubt sleeping soundly with his adopted familiar by his side. “Love doesn’t always find some of us.” Her voice is a mere whisper as her arms wrap around her middle, protecting her from the deep sense of loneliness she feels even as she stands in the warm glow of Draco and Scorpius’ home.

“Granger…” He reaches out for her and she pulls away.

“I have to go.” Panic is coming fast and she stumbles over her feet as she gropes along the garden wall for the gate.

Wild curls stream behind her as she tears across the field, the smell of lavender choking her as she trips over the resinous stalks. “Hermione, wait… Please…” His voice trails off as she puts distance between herself and a life she’s not sure she’ll ever have.

* * *

The sanctum of her cottage feels cold and bare.

Hermione lets tears stream down her cheeks as she snatches up the overnight bag Draco had returned just that afternoon. The ancient, magical castle and oak shaded picnic from a few hours ago feel a lifetime away.

The Floo has not been lit in the heat of summer, but the flames blaze bright and green as she tosses in the Floo powder and spins away calling out Grimmauld Place.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I can't wait to hear your thoughts! Your reviews on the last chapter blew me away! I'm sorry if I didn't have time to respond to them like I normally do, I'm in the throws of studying, but I really wanted to share this chapter. Y'all are all amazing! Thank you so much for reading/reviewing/kudosing (Is that a word?🤷♀️ Is now!).   
> Mcal! You know I love you, sweet friend! Thank you for your alpha/beta work on this story.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today was a great day! And I am running out of chill to share the final chapters of this story with you, so... HERE'S ANOTHER UPDATE!

* * *

The sitting room of Gimmauld is blessedly dark and empty, giving Hermione a moment to collect herself and wipe the wetness from her cheeks. For it’s only a moment later that Ginny pops into view, her belly gently swollen beneath her night shirt and a spoonful of cake frosting in her hand.

“Hermione? What are you doing here?” 

A watery half smile graces her face and her shoulders rise in a pitiful shrug. Ginny motions for her to follow and they enter the dim kitchen of the old Black townhouse. The rattle of flatware rings about the room and a matching spoonful of cake frosting finds its way in front of Hermione.

Her head is tossed back in laughter and she licks the creamy confection as Ginny bustles about preparing tea.

With steaming cups of tea before them they sip in silence for a several long moments when Ginny raises an eyebrow, an unspoken reiteration of her previous question.

Hermione pushes her hair off her face and looks into the dregs of her teacup instead of at Ginny. “I was just missing you guys.” She knows it sounds like a weak excuse, but she’s not ready to deal with any emerging feelings for a certain blond, brooding wizard, not to mention his precious son.

Ginny pats her hand. “We’ll get you settled in the guest room then, shall we?”

With a relieved sigh, Hermione follows her from the kitchen and finds herself ensconced in the bedroom she occupied once as an idealistic teenager.

* * *

Sleep is fitful, but adequate, she supposes, but the energy of the Grimmauld kitchen the next morning is infectious. Baby James watches as his father, with his chaotic hair and worn Hogwarts Quidditch t-shirt, levitates fruit around the kitchen to the beat of muggle hip hop music, and Ginny shakes her hips in time. James doubles down on his noise making when he spots her and Harry directs the conga line of apples and oranges into a bowl on the bench top.

Ginny shoots her a warm smile over her shoulder as she tends her pan of eggs and Harry pulls her into a familiar hug while ushering her into a seat and proffering a cup of her preferred morning coffee.

It’s not just the coffee that warms Hermione; it’s everything about this little family. The way Harry smiles at his wife, the way Ginny cups James’ rosy cheek as he pinches bites of egg in his fingers, the easy rhythm that hums around them as they enjoy a simple breakfast on a Sunday morning. Draco and Scorpius have this too. She tells herself that she has no business wanting to be part of it.

With breakfast finished, Harry scoops up a boisterous James. He bends to leave a kiss on Hermione’s cheek, James grabbing a handful of curls as Harry pulls away. Ginny eases the tresses from her son’s grip and shoos Harry from the room with a swat to his bum.

“Not in front of the company, woman.” He teases as he shimmies from the room.

Ginny collapses in the chair beside Hermione with an amused smile. “So...” She pats Hermione on the leg. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Draco Malfoy has a dead wife.” She just blurts it out.

Ginny nods. “I actually knew that.” Hermione cuts her eyes toward her friend. “His son told me,” she says with a shrug. “What’s really going on, Hermione?”

The coffee cooling in her mug is the most interesting thing she’s ever seen, especially since she has zero desire to think about, let alone discuss, Draco Malfoy. She settles for a shrug, but Ginny just rolls her eyes and sips her tea.

“I fear for your children. They will not be able to keep any secrets,” Hermione sighs.

“I did learn from the best,” Ginny preens. “Molly Weasley is a master interrogator.”

Then there is quiet. Ginny sips from her cup, an unaffected air surrounding her as she basks in the silence of the kitchen. Observing Ginny gives Hermione an excuse not to think about Draco. But the longer the silence extends to more her thoughts turn toward the mercurial wizard. When does he get a chance to sip a cup of tea or coffee in quiet? Does he purposefully stay up after Scorpius goes to sleep to enjoy a few minutes of solitude? How often does he wish that Astoria was still here and that he’d fallen madly in love with her? Does he want to take a chance on loving someone else?

Her thoughts begin to grow louder so Hermione relents, but what comes out of her mouth is unexpected at best. “Draco Malfoy has goats.”

Ginny nods and takes an easy sip of tea. “Does he use these goats for ritual sacrifice?”

An offended noise issues from the back of her throat as Hermione attempts not to choke on her coffee. “Of course not! I can’t believe you would suggest that about Esmerelda!” 

Ginny sits back in her chair, the corner of her mouth threatening to curl into a triumphant smirk as Hermione carries on, “Those goats are darling and they trust him to milk them and care for them. And the soap he makes, Gin… it’s the most luxurious soap you’ve ever used. And he cooks! And he has chickens… And a motorbike…” Her voice begins to quiet, “And the way he is with his son.” Hermione’s eyes begin to water.

“Hermione…” Ginny reaches up to grasp her hand.

“I like Draco Malfoy.” It’s no more than a whisper.

Ginny considers her for a moment. “It’s not the craziest thing I’ve ever heard”

“But,  _ Gin _ … ” she whines.

“No, Hermione.” She’s cut off before she can continue. “You are allowed to be interested in Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione’s lips purse and curl into themselves as she fights an internal battle over the feelings she has for Draco Malfoy and what it means to try and be part of his—and Scorpius’—life.

The thunk of Ginny’s mug on the table draws her back to the present, and patting the back of Hermione’s hand as she rises from the table Ginny announces, “We’re going for a walk.”

There is scarcely time to protest as the fiery witch summons their trainers and is halfway up the stairs to the first level before Hermione can tie one shoe.

* * *

“Going for a walk” was, as it turns out, Ginny-speak for shopping.

As soon as Hermione steps out onto the front stoop of Grimmauld Place, still thankfully hidden from muggle eyes, Ginny whisks them away to Diagon Alley.

Subversive measures aside, Hermione is glad for the bustle of the Alley all around them as they drift from shop to shop. Hermione can feel Ginny’s excitement for the new baby as she watches her run her fingers over the stitching in the soft babygrows they find, her face gentle with longing as she caresses the embroidered stars and dragons.

Thoughts of Draco Malfoy and his precious,  _ precious _ son fade to the back of her mind as they enjoy the day together.

That evening finds Hermione doubled over in laughter as George and Ron join them for dinner. It seems that Ron working with George at the joke shop ignited the dormant creative and mischievous spirit in the remaining twin.

Ron regales them with a story of his day spent engaging with customers, all the while, unbeknownst to him, his hair changed colors and styles. Seems he figured it out only when another wizard asked him how he achieved such a clean line between the colors of the rainbow hued confection atop his head. 

Hermione wasn’t sure who was more pleased at Ron’s retaliation that occurred later that same week, because George’s eyes glowed with pride as Ron described the writhing dance George performed around that shop after Ron imbued his jacket with itching powder.

She has really missed this; time with friends, tears that streak her cheeks with happiness instead of loneliness—a feeling of being right where she’s supposed to be.

* * *

The back garden of Gimmauld is an oddity in the city, small, of course, but unnaturally quiet. London’s boisterous melody, that she knows is just beyond the walls, doesn’t leak into the space, only the accompaniment of nocturnal insects can be heard, but the stars are not privy to the treachery of whatever charm is cast here, because they pale in comparison to the celestial light show that peppers the fields around her little country home… around Draco’s little country home.

Just that quickly, he’s on her mind again. The teasing laughter and easy camaraderie of her friends fades as she thinks of the way Draco smiles at his son while he plays, the gentle touch of his hand as he taught her to milk the goats and make soap, the solid warmth of his body as she clung to him on his motorbike. There is no doubt that he’s a changed man and the glimpse into his life—into  _ him _ —calls her back to that sweet little cottage surrounded by fields of lavender.

The evening winds down as Harry and Ginny disappear into the house to put James to bed and George excuses himself claiming a late-night meeting with a “lady friend”.

Ron remains by her side on the garden bench, his presence warm and familiar as she lets her eyes wander far away into the sky, to find the constellations that shine so bright in the country. 

“So, I hear you’ve got Malfoy as a neighbor.”

She shrugs and nods her head.

“His kid is pretty cool, huh?”

She cuts her eyes to him. “Harry told you about his son?”

He has that smug look on his face, the one he always sports after a particularly daring Quidditch save. “Harry tells me everything...” His voice gets quiet and his face implores her, “You used to tell me everything too.”

Her arms fly around his shoulders and she buries her face in his neck. He smells of gunpowder, faded cologne, and the same laundry soap Molly always uses, even though he doesn’t live at the Burrow any longer and she knows he does his own wash. It’s wonderful and familiar, but it lacks that crisp musk with a hint of lavender she recalls from her time tucked into Draco’s side as she slept on the sofa, or when she was wrapped around him on his motorbike as they traversed the undulating hills. How could those small, seemingly insignificant events, leave their etch on her soul and lead her here, to a place where she misses the man that bullied her as a child?

“Oh, Ron, I feel so lost.”

The rhythmic pressure of his hand rubbing up and down her back is grounding, but it stops too soon and Ron pushes her at arm’s length. “Have you ever thought that maybe, you’re not  _ lost _ , but you’re just on a path you didn’t plan?”

She purses her lips to fight the fond smile threatening to break free. “When did you get so philosophical?”

“So few appreciate my true wisdom.” He says brushing invisible dust from his shoulders and giving her a wink.

She gives him a little shove as they laugh. It feels good to laugh… to be with friends.

“Hermione?” He’s serious again. “What about that job offer you got?”

She shrugs, “I sent a response, but never heard back, maybe they changed their minds?”

Shaking his head he disagrees, “Nah, they'd be crazy not to hire you. You’re brilliant!”

“Thanks, Ron.” Hermione nudges his shoulder with hers, “I guess something will happen when the time is right.”

At this, Ron stands, his hands shoved into his pockets. “And as for Malfoy…”

“Listen, Ron…”

“No… you listen, Hermione. He may not be my favorite person, but if he makes you happy, who am I to say that you can’t have feelings for the bloke.” 

She can’t meet his eyes, “What if he’s the one that doesn’t have feelings for me?” Her voice is a mere whisper.

  
“Then he’s a fool .”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SOOO MUCH! I am overwhelmed by the response to this story! I hope to try and respond to reviews soon! And if you've read, reviewed, or left kudos... THANK YOU! Sweet Mcal! You're amazing and encouraging and just an all around lovely human! Thank you for all that you've done for me while writing and posting this story.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

Sleep finds her easily that night, and her dreams take her to a bright landscape with rolling hills of lavender as far as the eye can see. When her dreaming mind climbs the steps of an ancient castle she finds the figure of Draco Malfoy standing on a stone balcony watching Scorpius frolic in the field below. She floats through the dreamscape and is at Draco’s side in a moment. Scorpius looks up to them and waves with his usual enthusiasm going back to his play and Draco turns to her; so much like their last encounter in his back garden, but the haunted look in his eyes is replaced with something softer. When his mouth opens the sound that comes is a series of clicks and taps.

Groaning back into consciousness, Hermione wipes the sleep from her eyes and turns toward the window to find a barn owl tapping insistently. 

Once admitted to the house the efficient owl drops its missive with a soft  _ hoo _ and perches on the desk.

The parchment is familiar, thick and indigo, with the Gemini seal on the flap and her name etched in shining silver.

_ Ms. Granger, _

_ We at Constellation Press hope this communication finds you well.  _

_ At this time, we would like to arrange an interview to speak in more detail regarding your interest in joining our Content Development team. _

_ Editor Misselthwiate is available to meet tomorrow morning at eight o’clock. _

_ Please respond via Nesta if this is an amenable time. If not, please provide an alternative as we are eager to discuss this opportunity with you. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Constellation Press _

Hermione reads over the parchment three times. It is not as if she’s forgotten the job offer, she rather thought the job offer had forgotten about her.

Finding a spare piece of parchment and a muggle pen in the desk, Hermione composes a response, confirming the meeting for the next day.

* * *

The offices of Constellation Press boast a most indiscriminate facade. The only indicator that Hermione has arrived at the appointed location is the familiar Gemini sigil imprinted beside the door. 

The lobby is sparse and clean, black granite with sparkling silver and gold intrusions covering the floor and walls. She is sent to the top floor with little fanfare and finds herself waiting in a stiff-backed armchair as the editor’s assistant shuffles paper too and fro with quick, sharp wand movements.

A metallic ting rings out over the quiet shuffle of paper that fills the room and the assistant finally makes eye contact with Hermione. “Editor Misselthwaite will see you now.”

Rising from her chair she steps quietly into the now open double doors of the editor’s office.

N.B. Misselthwiate, as it turns out, was a woman with a sharp, classic sense of style, and so busy, in fact, that she didn’t stop her task to turn around and welcome her newest potential employee. With a wave of her hand she indicated the black leather sofa situated against the wall, “Please have a seat. I’ve prepared you a cup of tea. One sugar and a splash of milk? That is if my son is to be believed.” With a tittering laugh she turns around.

“Mrs. Malfoy?” Hermione is sure her mouth is hanging open.

“You are welcome to call me Narcissa, dear. May I call you Hermione?” she asks as she approaches with her hand outstretched.

Hermione shakes her hand and nods dumbly as she takes a seat on the sofa alongside  _ Narcissa  _ apparently _. _

“I’m thrilled you were able to meet today,” she bustles about with her teacup with practiced ease. “I do hope you’ll forgive the late response to your reply.” She dips her chin in graceful supplication, “There have been… personal matters to see to. As I’m sure you are aware.”

“Of course,” Hermione answers, still taken aback by the turn of events, but she is trying to find her footing. “I do hope things have improved with Mr. Malfoy.”

“He’s doing as well as can be expected.” Narcissa’s face is composed if not a bit solemn, “I must thank you for caring for my grandson. Draco was indispensable to me after Lucius’ accident.”

The sip of tea passing Hermione’s lips attempts a detour down her trachea in her surprise, but she manages to redirect the flow with nothing more than a gentle clearing of her throat. “I’m sorry, but did Mal… Draco… Speak of me?”

Naricissa’s gentle laugh carries across the room as she rests her teacup on its saucer, “Of course, dear,” she waves her hand with an unaffected air. “Hardly a Hogwarts break went by that I didn’t hear about  _ Hermione Granger. _ ”

“Well, I’m sure it was complaints primarily.” Hermione sips her tea in an attempt to cover up her confused face. Narcissa returns her gaze with a simple, but telling raised eyebrow as she sips once more from her cup. “We’re not… I mean… surely he didn’t imply… We’re not…  _ Involved. _ ” She finishes in a whisper.

A short decisive hum leaves Narcissa's mouth as she places her cup and saucer on the table between them. “Very well then. It seems we still have a job offer to discuss.”

* * *

Hermione grants herself the luxury to wander around Diagon Alley alone after the interview.

Once the topic of her “relationship” with Draco was exhausted, the meeting proceeded quite smoothly.

Narcissa made her a solid job offer, one that would allow her the opportunity to work primarily from home. At the mention of the word home, Hermione immediately sees herself seated at the antique desk situated under the window overlooking the back garden. The window out of which she can see a hint of lavender fields and the corner of Draco and Scorpius’ garden. 

The image gambols through her mind, but regardless of any possible interest she may or may not have in Draco Malfoy, Hermione knows it is an offer she cannot turn down.

She is brought back to the present as the steps of Grimmauld Place materialize before her. Entering the front hall, she hears Ginny in the kitchen below, her voice raised above the volume of the radio as she belts out a Weird Sisters’ tune from their school days.

Hermione falls into a fit of giggles as she peeks into the room to see the vivacious redhead singing at full voice into a carrot. Laughter rings from her lips and after an intense shimmy, Ginny tosses a zucchini toward Hermoine, who almost doesn’t catch it, and a duet ensues.

Hermione is breathless with laughter at the end of the song and falls into a chair at the end of the table. Ginny resumes her chopping of vegetables, but doesn’t stop shaking her hips to the music from the wireless.

“How was the interview?”

That brings Hermione back around to reality. Pushing her hair from her face she answers, “Well… did you know that the editor, and I assume owner of Constellation Press, is one Narcissa Malfoy?”

Ginny’s eyes widen and she turns in slow motion, taking in her friend sitting at her kitchen table, “ _ Really? _ ” She pops a carrot chip in her mouth and gives her head a bemused shake. “Misselthwaite though? I mean, it’s not completely out of character, but why all the cloak and dagger?”

“Yes,  _ really _ . The press has been in the Black Family for generations. Somewhere along the way the sitting editor used a pseudonym, and the tradition stuck.” Hermione shrugs. “And apparently she doesn’t find the idea of her son and I…  _ interfacing _ … such an abhorrent idea.”

“ _ Interfacing?”  _ Ginny rolls her eyes, “What are you two compupers?”

“Computers… and, no. I suppose she just didn’t seem put off by the idea that I would be in a relationship with her son.” 

Ginny scoffs. “Of course not, Hermione. You’re an amazing woman. Any man would be proud to have you, and any mother would be proud to call you their daughter-in-law.”

A put upon sigh leaves Hermione’s mouth. “Ginny, I hardly think we’re anywhere near worrying about my fitness as someone’s daughter-in-law.”

“No matter.” Ginny waves her knife, shooing Hermione’s self-deprecation to the side. “If you’re interested in pursuing Draco Malfoy, then it’s at least nice to know his mother won’t get in the way.”

“I’m not even sure he’s interested in me.”

Ginny turns all the way around at this, the knife discarded on the bench top, arms crossed over her chest. “I seem to remember a certain curly haired witch giving me some sage advice a few months back.” She strokes her chin with one hand and her head tilts to the side. “Who could that have been? And what was this wisdom she bestowed?” A mumbled answer comes from the woman seated at the table as she diligently avoids eye contact with her friend. “I’m sorry, what was that?” Ginny raises her hand to her ear.

“I told you to talk to Harry,” Hermione groans.

The look on Ginny’s face is far too pleased. “Precisely, talk to  _ him _ . You need to go back out there to the countryside and  _ talk _ to Malfoy… or is it  _ Draco  _ now?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

Hermione finds a lone cheerio, likely left over from James’ afternoon snack, on the table top and tosses it toward the smug witch. She dodges it, much as one would expect a professional Quidditch player to dodge a flying piece of cereal, but Hermione finds herself grumbling her agreeance. 

* * *

That evening’s dinner is full of more laughter, belonging, and unconditional love, but when she lands on the stoop of her back garden the next day, she can’t help but feel that she is finally at home.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got one chapter to go! I'm still blown away by all the amazing reviews and kudos! It's just such a pleasure to share this story with you all and I'm so glad you seem to be enjoying it!   
> As always, thank you to Mcal for really just everything! You're a beautiful human!


	12. Chapter 12

* * *

The resolve to talk to Draco, however, fades almost as quickly as the sound of her apparation.

She spends several days cleaning and rearranging her cottage; or rather moving her desk from its place under the window with a view of the lavender field, to the opposite wall, then back again—then repeating this until her frustration gets the better of her and the desk in situated in the middle of the room. Its placement mocks her cowardice at the idea of having an adult conversation with Draco.

In an effort to distract herself, Hermione retreats to the garden. Hardy summer weeds peek out from beneath the bases of her lovingly cultivated plants so she goes to work.

She lets her bare knees connect with the moist dirt and grass as she hunches into the beds, her fingers digging into the cool earth to eliminate the trespassers. Sweat pours down her face and neck. Her back aches from the poor posture and her shoulders feel the strain of the repetitive yanking.

Grasping a menacing piece of purple nutsedge she pulls the first bit free of the ground and follows the stringy root to the next tuber. She crawls along the ground, tracking the maze of roots to a particularly stubborn specimen, losing her grip as she pulls; she finds herself on her backside.

“Meeooow.”

Shielding her eyes, she looks up to the garden wall to find Ollie staring at her in something like reproach.

Looking away, she attempts to return to weeding the garden, but another resounding meow carries over the garden and draws her attention.

“I know, Ollie. Believe me,  _ I know _ . Can’t I just ignore it for a while longer?” Hermione resumes her position to attack the nasty nutgrass.

As she reaches for the same stubborn bit, a furry black head nudges her hand away. Hermione collapses back onto her calves in defeat, “What? What do you want?”

“Meeeooowww.” It’s Ollie’s only answer, but Hermione can hear the reprimand in his feline tone and knows that once again she is being a coward when it comes to confronting a situation in which she is unsure of the final outcome.

Ollie eases forward and edges his head under her limp hand. Hermione scratches him behind the ears and accepts him easily into her lap when he climbs up. “You think I should go see them, huh?” There is no answering meow this time, but he does stretch up to but the underside of her chin with his head, his resonant purr sending vibrations through her entire skull. “Alright. You win. I’ll go.” She looks up to see a small peach tree heavy with this year's bounty, and is struck with at least a semblance of a plan. “But I won’t go empty handed.”

* * *

It was fitting that this “plan” is as preconceived as her notion to move to the country at all. But before she can let herself overthink it she is standing at the front door of Draco and Scorpius’ home with an offering in her hands.

When Draco opens the door, a hint of something warm and sweet wafts into her face. He just stands there, leaning against the open door, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows with his arms crossed over his chest and cocks one eyebrow up in silent invitation for her to speak.  “I brought you something.” She raises the towel covered dish.

He turns and walks toward the kitchen with nothing but a wave of his hand to tell her to follow. 

The delightful, rich aroma of caramelizing peaches envelopes her in the kitchen and she begins to second guess the contents of the vessel in her hands.

A blur of blond hair and black fur tears in through the back door and stops short at the sight of her.

“Hermione!” She just has time to set down her package as Scorpius runs to her, throwing himself into her arms. She squeezes him back, savoring every solid inch of his enthusiastic hug. “Where have you been? I missed you,” he whispers into her hair.

She squeezes him tighter, “I missed you too.” She hopes he can’t hear the catch in her voice, but she schools her face into a smile as they pull back.

Hermione stands and glances at Draco from the side of her eye. Her top teeth are firmly in her bottom lip and her face is scrunched into what she hopes is an apologetic grimace.

His lips are pursed, but his shoulders fall noticeably enough that she feels as if there might be hope to, at least, salvage their friendship. Pulling back the towel covering her dish, his entire face changes into an amused smirk. “Granger, did you make a…  _ pie _ ?” He chuckles as he removes the towel completely.

Hermione makes a shrill noise of derision and puts her hands on her hips. “That, for your information, is a  _ tart _ .”

Scorpius climbs into a stool by the island and looks over at her tart. He wrinkles his freckle dusted nose. “Hermione, are you sure this is a tart?” He points to a rather burned portion of the crust and then to the place on the top where she was a bit too liberal with the cinnamon. “Because—” A ding sounds throughout the kitchen and Scorpius and Hermione watch as Draco turns around, opens the oven, and, with a smirk, pulls out a perfectly browned, evenly cinnamonned tart. 

Scorpius is giggling into his hand as Draco sets his tart next to hers. He continues to smirk and after a moment of looking between the tart, the mirthful young man and his smug father, Hermione begins laughing too. She shrugs and covers her dessert up with the towel, “Well I tried.”

“That’s okay, Hermione, I’ll bet it still tastes good.” Scorpius scampers off the stool, throws another quick hug around her waist and bounds back toward the door, but before he makes it out he turns. “Are you going to stay for dinner?”

When Draco looks at her now, the smirk is gone, replaced with eyebrows raised in question. She gives him a subtle nod. “I would love to,” she says just before the back door slams and the adults are left alone in the kitchen.

The urge to drop her eyes from his gaze is strong. But the way his eyes hold hers as he steps around the island and into her space is mesmerizing and she takes the opportunity to explore the depths of his irises.

The grey swirls like the thunderheads that roll across the countryside on lazy afternoons with teasing hints of blue that play along the edges. And just like the torrent of the clouds she hides herself from, she wants to hide away from the storm in his eyes. 

But she doesn’t.

Today she will be brave. Today she will face the unknown and reach for something unexpected.

“I like you, Draco.”

He chuckles at her simple declaration, but takes a step closer. The words hang in the air and she bites her bottom lip, the sharp sting quelling the nervousness she feels. As she dips her chin to hide in her vulnerability, she feels the soft brush of his fingers against her cheek. Her lip pops free as he nudges her chin up and his eyes trail over her face, following his fingers as they push an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “I like you too, Hermione.” The storm in his eyes calms; no longer turbulent, but gentle and steadfast, like clouds that bring the rain of renewal and growth.

Then he’s leaning in toward her and her breath catches as his face nears hers. He pushes his hand into her hair and threads his fingers into the tresses at the nape of her neck. She arches up, and her hands find purchase on his chest, but the slam of the kitchen door causes them both to flinch.

Scorpius bounds in, a bright green stalk in his hand. “Dad, I picked some fresh basil for the pizza.” He doesn’t stop to look at them as he lays it by the sink, but calls on his way back out, “Hermione, you’ll love my dad’s pizza, it’s  _ the best.”  _ And with that the door slams once more.

  
  


Draco presses his forehead against hers and they shake in silent laughter. He presses a soft kiss just above her brow, and then, both of them still laughing, draws her into his body, wrapping his arms around her. She returns the embrace, her arms twining around his waist as she nuzzles into his firm chest.

The smell of lavender, cinnamon, and toasted pastry embraces her; the rhythm of his heart beneath her ear grounds her to the moment. 

Their breaths rise and fall together for a few long moments and Draco is still holding her when he breaks the silence. “Scorpius wasn’t the only one that missed you.”

She squeezes him tighter, nodding into his chest, her voice stifled by the threatening tears. With a fortifying breath, she finally pulls away and looks into his face again. In the softness of the moment, he wears a lopsided grin that radiates with contentment, and she finds herself smiling back at him, her soul suffused with the same feeling.

As he steps away, that endearing grin transitions into a playful smirk and mischievous glint shines in his eyes. Hermione raises her eyebrows in question as Draco pulls a large stock pot off a shelf. The metal clangs with an echo as he places it on the benchtop. “Tell me, Granger,” his voice dripping with challenge, “what do you know about making cheese?”

Her laugh rings through the kitchen. “Not much, Malfoy,” she steps around the island, coming back into his space, “But I have a feeling you're going to teach me.”

“They don’t call you the Brightest Witch of Her Age for nothing do they?” She gives him a teasing shove, but he pulls her in for a quick hug, placing a kiss on the top of her head. “Now, enough fooling around, you can’t have the best pizza without the best mozzarella. Get the gallon of milk from the fridge.”

* * *

The pizza is, in fact, some of the best pizza Hermione has ever eaten.

The company with the meal is even better.

There is a warmth that permeates the atmosphere. Her smile comes easier, and her laughter is light as she watches Scorpius scarf down slice after slice and Draco holds her hand atop the table running his thumb over the back of her knuckles.

“Mother tells me you accepted the position with Constellation.”

Hermione nods, but squints at him, “It’s interesting that she even knew I was looking for a job.”

Shrugging, Draco rises from the table clearing the dirty dishes. As he reaches for her plate, he gives her a wink. “You love to tell people what to do, deciding what children learn seemed right up your alley.”

She launches her napkin at him as he walks away. It falls impotently to the floor amid his laughter. She can’t help but laugh herself. It really is the perfect job for her, she muses to herself as she leaves her place at the table to join him at the sink.

* * *

Twilight stretches indolently across the evening sky as the trio strolls among the lavender. The evening crickets scatter as the ever ebullient Scorpius bursts down the rows and over the bushes.

They arrive at the small clearing, the memory of lost mothers, fireflies, and promises of friendship lingering in the air as Draco spreads the blanket over the ground.

Ollie emerges from the fragrant stems and stalks after a fluttering moth, Scorpius soon joining him in playful pursuit.

Hermione and Draco lay side by side, shoulders brushing, fingers braided together as the magic of the evening surrounds them. The twinkle of a firefly overhead draws Hermione’s eye, and as she allows her gaze to float along with the luminescent insect, she finds Draco studying her.

The impulse to avert her eyes doesn’t come and she finds herself studying the planes of his face in turn. With his meticulously constructed walls laid asunder, his sharp features take on an air of calm grace and she basks in the gentle yearning in his eyes.

One of her more impish curls floats on the breeze and he reaches over to twirl it around an elegant finger before tucking it behind her ear. It’s a sweet gesture, but even as his hand lingers in her hair, his thumb brushing her cheek, more curls dance around them.

“I’m glad you decided to come back, Hermione.”

She shifts to turn her body more toward his, “I am too.”

And there in the lavender field, as the first stars glimmer in the sky above, fireflies swirl around them, and the laughter of his son floats over them, he closes the distance between them to capture her lips in a kiss.

* * *

As summer closes there is a well-worn path through the woods and between the rows of fading lavender; and as the days turn short and the air turns crisp, the sounds of a family blending together fill the little house in the country and echo across the field and into the lane leading to the village. Winter’s icy blanket covers the surrounding fields while the once impossible love between two people burns as bright as the hearth that warms the cottage. Spring erupts with fresh shoots of green that cover the path, and take hold with a confidence they won’t be trampled.

It’s when the days grow long once more, that Draco and Hermione stand in the field of lavender beside the little house in the country, Scorpius between them vibrating with excitement as his ever-present feline companion cleans its face with a dampened paw, and their friends and family surround them. The sky behind them bursts with the colors of sunset, and the smell of lavender wafts on the evening breeze as they pledge their lives in love and faithfulness to one another; sealing their bond with a kiss amid a swirl of fireflies and magic. 

The end

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe this is the final chapter! It's bittersweet to finish a story, but I've absolutely LOVED writing this one and hearing from all of you throughout the posting. I hoped you've enjoyed it! I'd love to hear what you think of this final chapter! I am working on a short glimpse into their lives in their little country bubble, so it's not good bye for good to this little universe. Thank you all again, from the bottom of my heart, for reading, reviewing, leaving kudos, and following or interacting on Facebook. It's incredible to me every time I post or read a new story how far the reach of fan fiction and fandom goes and what a beautifully diverse community we have. You're all amazing! 
> 
> Mcal, a special note to you: How can I properly say thank you for everything? You are so generous with your time, encouragement, and friendship. You are the most lovely individual and I am sending you the biggest virtual hug. I hope it can be a real hug one day! Thank you, thank you, sweet friend, you are amazing!

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the end of this little tale. I discovered angst takes more than a couple of thousand words. I hope you'll subscribe and join me on this ride to see where these crazy characters take us. 
> 
> Once again, thank you to Mcal!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving kudos or a review. It's amazing to hear from readers and I'd love to know what you think. Thanks for reading.


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